


Whatever The Cost

by ljunattainable



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Community: deancasbigbang, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 05, implied canonical character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:10:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljunattainable/pseuds/ljunattainable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cas takes Dean & Sam to 1978 to save their parents from Anna it gets the attention of Lucifer who sends Castiel to 2014 to fetch something for him.  Castiel comes back with something completely different that just might solve their Lucifer problem but at no small risk.<br/>To make it work, Castiel has to voluntarily become human for a while, which pleases neither himself nor Dean.  Vulnerable, hunted, finding things out about being human he dislikes and never anticipated, Cas is also appreciating the up-side of having a less harried, and rushed relationship with Dean than their norm.  He even finds himself praying for more time - a commodity they have very little of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my lovely beta [dapperscript](http://dapperscript.livejournal.com/). I have tweaked the fic since she saw it so all remaining mistakes are most definitely mine.
> 
> And especial thanks to the amazing artist Amanda, [wifihunters](http://wifihunters.tumblr.com/), my co-conspirator in whumping Cas, whose master art post can be found [here ](http://wifihunters.tumblr.com/post/63489415473).
> 
> I think it's a good job Amanda and I don't run Supernatural or poor Cas would spend every episode bloody.

Castiel’s landing is rough, and he would have fallen unceremoniously flat on his face if it wasn’t for the car that’s conveniently right there next to him. He steadies himself against it gratefully, hands flattened against the sun-warmed metal. He takes a few deep breaths to try and clear his head. He’d known the trip would be difficult, and this is particularly unpleasant, but it could have been worse; at least he actually made it to 1978 and he’s still standing - though he seriously wishes the buildings, vehicles and people would stop swimming in and out of focus around him; it’s making him nauseous. Unfortunately they don’t. After a minute spent staring at the brown car roof, gathering his wits to some extent, he raises his head slowly and squints into the street, seeking out Sam and Dean. He doesn’t want to admit it, but a small part of him worries that he might have lost them on the way, so he’s relieved when he spots them. They look bemused. It’s understandable; Castiel feels a little that way himself.

His vision blurs. He shuts his eyes tight and falls forward, letting the car take his weight as he leans his chest and thighs against its door. He squeezes his fingers into the roof, gripping hard onto nothing but well-waxed paint as he tries to keep himself upright. He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath. The air irritates his lungs immediately, his chest seizes up and he gives a wracking, wet cough. Blood sprays out of his mouth and onto the paintwork and he looks at the bright red spots in consternation. He needs to heal himself, and quickly, if he’s to be of any use here. He turns clumsily and braces his back against the car door. 

Despite his best intentions his knees start shaking, finally buckling and giving out, and he slides down the door to the sidewalk.

By the time Sam and Dean come around the car and notice him he’s barely conscious. They shout his name and he lifts his head weakly to acknowledge them. He’s vaguely aware of their hands grasping desperately at his sleeves to hold him up as he slips further towards the ground. He tells them, when they ask, about how he’s better than he expected. He tries to convey that this is a good thing; they don’t seem to believe him. Then he passes out.

~~xxx~~

He’s not quite sure how he got here. It’s definitely not where he was. For a start, there’s nothing but red sky and red sand as far as the eye can see. Definitely no buildings and no roads and no cars and as far as he can tell this isn’t 1978, though he’s going to admit to not being entirely certain on that point; his thoughts are a little muddy. 

If he had to hazard a guess, and he does because right at this moment he doesn’t know anything for certain, he’d say he was dreaming; not that he’s had a lot of experience with dreaming, never having had a single dream that he could call his own. He’s dream-walked but that’s not really the same and this doesn’t feel like that.

For a while he simply stands still, waiting for something to happen; back straight, feet exactly thirty centimeters apart, arms by his sides, fingers curling lazily. Nothing happens. He walks around a bit. Nothing happens. He pinches himself – he’s heard about that. Nothing happens. Eventually, he lowers himself down onto the dusty ground, crosses his legs, puts his palms on his knees, lets his eyelids close, and waits. 

He feels ill. Some of Dean’s dreams haven’t exactly been pleasant, but he’s never felt physically ill before, so perhaps it’s not a dream after all.  
He starts fidgeting, getting impatient. Humans seem to think that being alive for millennia must endow you with endless patience. He doesn’t know where they get that idea from. He opens one eye. Nothing’s changed. He closes it again. He wishes the dream (or whatever it is) would get on with it.

The trip would weaken him, he’d told Dean. That turned out to be an understatement. Dean and Sam might still be there, on the other side of his unconsciousness, anxiously staring down at him and wondering what they’re going to do with a dying angel while Castiel dreams and waits. He doesn’t think they are, though. He does at least have a sense of time having passed; perhaps quite a lot of time. He drums his fingers against his knees in growing worry. He hopes they’re getting on alright without him, saving their parents, saving Sam, but it’s not as if he can do anything about it from here. So he waits. Impatiently.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer.

“Hello, Castiel.” The voice is depressingly familiar. Castiel opens both eyes and turns reluctantly towards the speaker. 

In anyone else’s dream the Devil sitting relaxed in a green, winged armchair with his ankles crossed, face pleasant and friendly would be discounted as fantasy; unfortunately not in Castiel’s. Castiel estimates the odds at sixty-forty that Lucifer’s really there and Castiel hasn’t just made him up.

“Lucifer,” Castiel says, uncoiling himself elegantly as he stands. 

Lucifer conjures a second armchair behind Castiel with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Have a seat, Brother,” Lucifer invites him.

“I prefer to stand,” Castiel says, eyes glancing only briefly over his shoulder to register the presence of the chair. He decides he’s going to work on the basis that this is real. Better to err on the side of caution when you’re talking with Satan.

“I prefer you to sit.” Lucifer’s voice dips low and threatening, and Castiel is flung backwards to sprawl loose-limbed and breathless in the second armchair. Disgruntled but silent, Castiel shuffles upright in the chair and draws his coat around him protectively. 

“I had to pick the venue,” Lucifer says, looking around them before turning back to stare at Castiel. “I hope you don’t mind, but in your current state, if I left it up to you, who knows where we’d have ended up.” 

What is his current state? And at least that explains the over-abundance of red. “I congratulate you on your imagination.”

Lucifer scowls. “Don’t push your luck, Castiel.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to thank you for saving Sam, of course.”

So it worked. It must have. John and Mary Winchester are safe. And Anna? Castiel doesn’t want to know what happened to Anna.

“Sam Winchester is my friend,” he says, repeating the sentiment he’d expressed to Anna. He levels his gaze at Lucifer. “I will do whatever I have to do to keep him safe.”

“Yes.” Lucifer looks at him with curiosity and what could be amusement, “I know you will. Dean too, I’ll wager; the Winchester boys and their guardian angel. What wouldn’t you do might be the more interesting question.”

“Why am I here?” Castiel asks.

Lucifer shrugs. “Not buying the ‘thanks for saving Sam’ story then? Does there have to be a reason, Castiel? This is fun, isn’t it? Two brothers catching up, just shooting the breeze?”

“No,” Castiel says. He looks at the devil. Lucifer’s face is impassive. Castiel can’t read him at all and he feels so sick he just wants to go to sleep; but isn’t he already asleep? “Why am I here? Where and when is here?”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re all back safely,” Lucifer says. “I’m sure that Sam and Dean are, as we speak, mopping the fevered brow of their favorite angel.” Lucifer leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “In all honesty – I could use your time travelling skills.”

“What for?” Castiel raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t have any time travel skills; that’s why he’s here – he messed it up. But Dean’s back okay. And Sam. That’s a relief. Dean will be worried, though. Dean worries a lot. Castiel tries to do things which make Dean worry less. He should probably try and wake up. Dean won’t be happy that he’s talking to Lucifer and Dean worries when Castiel sleeps.

“Castiel… Castiel!” Lucifer clicks his fingers twice, loudly, to get Castiel’s attention.

“What?” Castiel jerks his head back up to stare at Lucifer. 

Lucifer waves a hand, exasperated. “If I tell you, you won’t remember. I’ll tell you later.”

“There will be no later,” Castiel growls. “I find your company irksome. Whatever it is you want, let’s get it over with.”

“Irksome?” Lucifer smiles darkly. “I suppose I should take offence, but as it’s you, little brother.” 

Castiel jumps when Lucifer suddenly appears behind him. Putting his fingers into Castiel’s hair, Lucifer grabs a handful and tugs backwards sharply. Castiel’s head hits the chair with a soft thump and Castiel squirms to try and pull away. 

Lucifer leans forward to whisper in Castiel’s ear and his rancid breath pollutes the air. It’s all Castiel can do not to gag. “You’re hard to get hold of these days, Castiel. You’re very good at hiding. For the sake of efficiency, you left me no choice but to resort to spells. Do you know how debasing that is? We need to have a conversation – a proper conversation – because there’s something I want you to do for me. At the moment you’re so out of it I doubt you’ll remember any of this, so I’m going to leave you a note.”

Chains appear out of nowhere to coil around him and hold him to the chair and Castiel tries to duck away, but it’s useless. Lucifer strengthens his grip on Castiel’s hair, holding him in place effortlessly, as Castiel twists and turns. The chains loop around and around; first pinning one arm down, then his legs, then his chest, then the other arm. When the only part of him that Castiel can move is his head, Lucifer finally releases his hold, walks around to the side of the chair and pushes up the layers of sleeves on Castiel’s right arm. Castiel struggles; he hisses in pain as the chains pinch at his skin, and Lucifer reaches a hand up and strokes fingers through Castiel’s hair, gentle. Dean does that. Dean does that a lot. Dean does it when they’re making love, or on the few occasions Castiel buries his head in Dean’s shoulder seeking whatever comfort is being offered. Lucifer has no right to this, and Castiel jerks his head forward to get away. Lucifer smirks and trails his fingertips down Castiel’s cheek. Castiel glares at Lucifer in defiance; it’s not much but it’s all he’s got.

Chuckling quietly, Lucifer takes his hand away and reaches behind him, under his jacket. He pulls a sigil-engraved knife from a sheaf on his belt. Castiel watches; afraid but also intrigued as Lucifer turns the blade one side then the other, apparently showing it off.

“I’m sorry, Castiel,” Lucifer says as he places the tip of the knife against the skin of Castiel’s inner forearm, “You’re not going to like this.” Lucifer pushes the blade so that it digs into Castiel’s skin and then he starts to carve. The pain is unnaturally harsh, supernaturally harsh even. Castiel can feel it burning into the flesh of his arm much deeper than the cuts warrant. His head drops, his chin resting on his chest and he holds his breath and stares at the blood trickling warmly down his skin and soaking into the arm of the chair. 

It doesn’t take Lucifer long to finish his carving and the relief Castiel feels when the knife is pulled out of his flesh for the final time is overwhelming. He takes several heavy breaths as Lucifer wipes the blood from the blade against his jeans and stands back to admire his handiwork. Leaning forward, Lucifer wipes the blood away from the cuts with his palm. 

Castiel stares down; the word ‘Carthage’ stands out in raw, bloody weals. Lucifer twists his wrist and the cuts briefly glow white before fading and disappearing as if they were never there. Except that Castiel can feel them. Every slice. 

Then Lucifer slams the heel of his hand onto Castiel’s forehead.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel comes to slowly, ill, aching and trembling; his head hurts; his arm hurts; every time he breathes, his chest rattles painfully and uncomfortably.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for it to dawn on him that he’s not lying on a cold and hard sidewalk in 1978, but on a soft but lumpy mattress in 2010. It would be a lot of effort to open his eyes so he doesn’t, but he doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that he’s in a motel room. His nose tells him that; that distasteful musty smell of cheap blankets that he’d recognize anywhere. 

He coughs; wet heaves that he can’t stop and that make his chest cramp and he thanks whomever it is that he’s supposed to thank these days that he’s lying on his side and not on his back. As it is he almost chokes on the blood that collects in his throat, spraying it onto the pillow and dribbling it out onto his chin. He’s about to turn into the pillow to wipe the dribble away, when something rough, warm and wet is wiped across his face and he jerks violently away from it; his hand scrabbles at the bedding as he tries to distance himself from whomever or whatever is there.

“Hey, hey!”

Castiel stops struggling to get away and his eyes fly open in surprise, though he shouldn’t really be surprised. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says, his voice little more than a rasp. 

“Dude, what were you thinking?” Dean accuses.

“I told you time travel was difficult.” He coughs up more blood and Dean wipes the corners of Castiel’s mouth with the wet towel he’s holding in one hand. Dean’s other hand is wrapped tightly around Castiel’s forearm. It’s painful, and Castiel pulls his arm away.

“You said, ‘It will weaken me’? It damn near fucking killed you.” Dean wipes a hand over his face and turns his head into the light and Castiel can see the dark shadows under his eyes.

“Sorry,” Castiel says. “We’re back?” He licks his lips, trying to chase away the dryness.

“Yeah. You don’t remember?” Dean frowns. “You were conscious for a second when you came back – I thought you knew where you were.”

Castiel shakes his head on the pillow. “That may be but I don’t remember.” He coughs and Dean dabs away the blood on his face again. “I don’t remember anything after passing out by the car.” 

“Yeah, well, that was nearly a week ago – if you ignore the fact that it was thirty years ago.” Dean is staring at Castiel, blatantly concerned, worry pulling the muscles in his face into tense lines and planes. 

A sudden urgent thought strikes Castiel and he tries to sit up to see into the room. “Where’s Sam?” 

“I’m here,” Sam says, looming into Castiel’s line of sight.

Castiel lets his head drop back down onto the pillow. “I’m glad to see you, Sam,” he says, slurring his words slightly in exhaustion and letting his eyes slide closed as he relaxes. Dean’s here, Sam’s here. He can worry about the vague sense of misgiving he has later. Right now he thinks he’s going to stop talking and rest.

“Cas?” Dean demands, and Castiel reluctantly opens his eyes again. Dean’s relief is tangible. “Sorry, I just… I thought… do me a favor and don’t close your eyes for a minute, okay?” There’s an uncomfortable pause, and then Dean runs his finger under the neck of his tee-shirt and laughs nervously. “I’m being completely ridiculous aren’t I? ‘Cos, you know – ‘Angel’. You’ll be healed in no time, right?” It’s a rhetorical question and Dean should know that no-one in this room is going to judge him for his concern but both Castiel and Sam prudently keep quiet. “Okay, then,” Dean says, grimacing sheepishly at them both. “We’re staying here for tonight anyway so take what time you need with the healing thing.” Dean crosses to his bag, rummages around and pulls out a bottle of Codeine. He empties the bottle into his palm and brings it back with a glass of water. Castiel doesn’t know why there are only ever ten pills in those bottles. It’s barely enough to take the edge off. 

“You can go back to sleep now,” Dean says after Castiel has swallowed the tablets.

“Angels don’t need sleep, Dean,” Castiel says because it’s what Dean needs to hear.

#

Despite what Castiel told Dean, he’d welcome sleep; his eyes are heavy, dry and gritty; his limbs weigh him down; the simple act of breathing is wearing. Sleep would be a blessing. But the very fact that he needs sleep, that he’s so debilitated by a simple thirty-two year hop, with or without passengers, scares him. 

His current situation is unprecedented in angel-kind as far as he knows. He has no idea if his grace will slowly dwindle, simply disappear overnight, or, as he hopes, remain stable, even though it may be weaker. He doesn’t want to be human; he’d be useless, totally unequipped to cope. His constant nagging worry is that humanity is where he’s heading and it’s enough to jolt him awake every time his mind starts to shut down. 

Dean, however, seems pleased enough that Castiel doesn’t sleep. While Castiel heals, Dean is a constant in the room. While Sam is obvious, moving around, occasionally crossing the room to see if there’s anything Castiel wants, Dean is just there. Not hovering, not fussing, but there when Castiel needs something, quite often before Castiel knows himself. Glasses of water appear on the nightstand when his throat’s dry, blankets are pulled down or up as he shivers hot or cold; there’s a hand on his shoulder when he needs one, and it’s gone when he feels too ill to bear to be touched. It should be comforting but instead it just adds to his feeling of helplessness.

He fidgets on the bed and tries to sit up, impatient to be well, as if he can force it to happen if he wants it bad enough. Dean’s hand appears to press on his shoulder and pushes him back down far too easily.

Castiel scowls at him. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, sure you are, hotshot. Sit up then.” Dean keeps his hand on Castiel’s shoulder and Castiel doesn’t have the strength to push up against it. He scowls some more and rolls onto his side, towards the wall, setting off a bout of coughing. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dean says. He sits behind Castiel and rubs his back through the coughing fit. Castiel just lies there, unable to do anything and he hates it with a vengeance.

Time passes and the coughing eases off. At some point, Sam announces his intention to get dinner. He flicks the laptop lid down and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, feeling in his pocket to check for his wallet.

“Cherry,” Dean says as Sam’s hand grabs the motel room door handle.

“What?” 

“Pie,” Castiel says, rolling onto his back. “Dean wants cherry pie.”

Dean’s face lights up in an appreciative grin. “Yeah, what he said.”

“I read somewhere that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Castiel says seriously. Sam laughs out loud. Castiel hadn’t meant to be funny but he’s quite pleased that he was. It lightens the mood.

“Cas, you want anything?” Sam asks, still smiling. Castiel shakes his head. He may be falling in every way imaginable but he doesn’t need to eat yet.

When Sam’s gone and the rumble of the Impala engine can be heard fading away in the direction of the small downtown area, Dean gets up and comes and sits with Castiel on the bed.

“How’re you doing really?”

“I’m fine.” 

Dean nods, not believing him. He takes Castiel’s hand in his and strokes his thumb over the back in small circles. “You look like crap. I’m sorry, man. I wouldn’t have asked you to take us if I’d known it would do this to you.”

Castiel pulls his hand away to brace himself while he shuffles upright on the bed. Castiel’s lungs thankfully behave themselves and Dean doesn’t try to stop him this time. He absently-mindedly rubs at the persistent ache in his forearm, before he settles so they’re sitting together, shoulder to shoulder against the headboard. Dean takes Castiel’s hand back, linking their fingers and pulls him a little closer so that Castiel’s weight is leaning against him. 

“Dean, you would have asked anyway, because it’s Sam.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand when Dean starts to object. “And I knew it would be difficult, and it was my choice, not yours.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Dean scoffs.

“I didn’t say it to make you feel better. It’s up to you how you feel about it. It is what it is.” Castiel drops his head back against the headboard. “When I rebelled, I was prepared to die to stop the apocalypse and I still am. You were prepared to let me die, and you still should be.”

“Cas – ”

“This, whatever it is that we feel for each other now, mustn’t stop us from doing what’s right.”

Dean’s quiet for a long time before he answers. “I’m not good at this Cas, but this ‘whatever it is that we feel for each other’ crap? I love you, man. I don’t know how you feel and you don’t have to say it back; in fact, please don’t say it back, but yeah, of course I’m always going to look out for Sam. Always. But I’m going to look out for you too and you have to tell us when you’re planning on doing something monumentally frigging stupid like this again because we will find another way. Together. Do you understand?”

Castiel looks across in surprise at Dean’s determined face. Dean huffs out a sigh and turns his head away and down, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. 

“I understand,” Castiel murmurs.

“Good,” Dean says, “because I am not having this frigging conversation again.” Dean moves the extra inch necessary to kiss Castiel’s cheek and lingers there for a long moment with his lips against Castiel’s skin, before he stands up and stretches. “Now, you rest some more. Get better. I’m gonna shower. I stink.”

Castiel watches Dean walk across the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. That’s the most either of them has ever said about their… ‘relationship’, Castiel supposes is the right word. It’s been a source of comfort to them both, they’ve never questioned it, there’s never been a need to analyze it, and given their lifestyle, definitely no point in planning a future. Now he’s left wondering if perhaps they got that wrong. “I love you too,” he says quietly into the empty room.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel traces the fingertips of his right hand over the forearm of his left. Ten times now his fingers have followed the lines and ten times they’ve come up with the same result. There’s no way he could have made a mistake. ‘Carthage’. He reads it again, the pad of his forefinger following each tender, aching letter that makes up the word. Obviously something happened between him passing out in 1978 and waking up here; words don’t just appear, carved not only into his flesh but also into his grace, without deliberate intent. He doesn’t remember but according to Dean he’s lost a whole week of memories and he doubts he’ll get them back. What he does know is that the word that’s been bewitched into his flesh and the manner in which it’s been done narrows the options for the likely perpetrators quite considerably. Down to one, in fact. 

It’s obviously a trap but just as obviously he can’t ignore it; Lucifer put a lot of effort into sending him a personal invitation. 

He looks sideways at Dean lying on the bed next to him, gently snoring, one arm draped over Castiel’s waist and the other hand fisted in Castiel’s shirt, holding him in place. 

Dean’s only been asleep a couple of hours and Sam told Castiel he hadn’t slept at all the previous night – the night Castiel spent unconscious; Castiel doesn’t want to wake him but his curiosity is getting the better of him, and now that he’s well again he’s eager not to waste any more time than he already has. He should probably wake Dean and tell him he’s leaving but he can imagine the argument that will result if he does that. He leaves Dean sleeping and he flies away from under him to Carthage.

~~xxx~~

Castiel has been on the ground for all of thirty seconds, barely long enough to get his bearings, before he’s embroiled in battle. His sword manifests in his fist in the time it takes him to take his first blink, and by the second blink, he’s slashing and stabbing in frenzy at the onslaught of demons. Whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. 

He catches one demon across the throat and as it claws desperately at its gaping flesh, three more appear in its place. He stabs one through the sternum and four more appear. 

He makes a strong show of fighting back, trying to keep them at bay, trying to take some with him, but the end is inevitable. He should have told Dean where he was going. And he should have said goodbye. 

He hears noises behind him but he can’t turn because there are five demons in front of him with knives and thick wooden bats and behind, in front, to both sides; it’s all the same now. He’s hit from behind, between the shoulder blades and the force of the blow sends him reeling forward even as he heals the smashed scapula. His hair is gripped painfully and a knee comes up into his face to break his nose. He heals that too but then there’s a smash of something heavy on the back of his head and a voice to one side utters a short phrase in Enochian that leaves him gasping. 

He feels himself falling forward as the hands holding him upright let go all at once. The ground is coming up to meet him and he’s going to smash into it, face-first, and he should probably do something about it. 

It turns out there’s nothing he can do – he’s unconscious before he hits the ground.

~~xxx~~

Castiel comes around with a start, curled on his side on a dusty, threadbare rug. His wrists are bound tightly together with thick old leather straps carved with intricate and powerful ancient sigils that have cut off his power, rendering him, yet again, wretchedly human. Perhaps the world is trying to tell him something.

He rolls onto his back and looks around. He’s alone in a small room with a few pieces of furniture and limited options for escape. There’s one door and two boarded up windows, the rug he’s lying on, a small wooden roll-top bureau, a 1940’s era swivel office chair that’s pulled up against the bureau and a green winged armchair tucked into one corner. Every wall in the room is painted in bloody wards. 

He stands up and fumbles awkwardly in his coat pocket for his phone. He’s not particularly surprised to find the pocket empty; the phone’s either fallen out and gotten lost in the brawl or, more likely, been taken by the demons. There won’t be any rescue that way, not that he’d risk bringing Dean and Sam into this mess he’s got himself into, but it would have been nice to think he had the choice. 

He wanders across to the door, grabs the handle and gives a few experimental yanks, but it’s locked and firmly attached to its frame. His attempts to dislodge the boards covering the windows meet with a similar lack of success. Frustrated, he crosses to the office chair, swivels it so he’s facing the armchair, and sits down to wait. The last few days have been severely trying his patience.

Lucifer turns up an hour later, or perhaps he’s been here all along, invisibly watching, because although he appears suddenly in the armchair he already looks comfortable and settled, legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, each arm resting loosely on an armrest. Castiel sits up straighter. The door to the room opens and a handful of demons file in and lean against one of the room’s two empty walls. Lucifer has swiveled his head to watch them, and when the demons are quiet he turns back to Castiel. 

“Cas,” Lucifer begins, drawing his legs in towards the chair, “I can call you Cas, can’t I?”

“No.”

Lucifer is smiling. He’s amused and for some reason that’s what annoys Castiel the most; more than the attack; more than his imprisonment. 

“Castiel it is, then. I have a favor to ask.”

Castiel looks around him at the demons, then to his lap at his bound hands; he can still feel the ache in his head from the blow that knocked him out cold, not to mention ‘Carthage’ carved into his forearm. “You have a strange way of asking for a favor,” he says, looking back at Lucifer, “What do you want?”

“Always straight to the point, Castiel. I like that. I need you to take a little trip in time and pick up a souvenir for me.”

Castiel tilts his head. He’s going to say no, of course, but he’s curious. Lucifer went to a lot of trouble to set up this meeting. “Explain.”

“Given your recent demonstration, I just know you’re the right angel for the job. Well that, and you’re the only rebellious angel available right now.” Lucifer’s mouth turns down in mock sorrow, “Unfortunately, time travel’s a skill my staff and I don’t have.”

“And my ability is limited. It nearly killed me last time.”

“True. But this time you’re not taking passengers, and it’s only four years; it’ll be a walk in the park.”

“Perhaps.”

“Whatever. But you will survive.”

“What can you possibly want from four years ago?”

“Not four years in the past, Castiel; four years in the future.”

“That’s where Zachariah sent – ”

“– Dean. Yes, I know. Haven’t you always wanted to know what Dean saw in the future? I bet he hasn’t told you.”

Castiel does want to know what Dean saw; quite a lot actually. Dean has let out details like the Croatoan virus running rampant, but has been cagey about almost everything else. Castiel knows there’s more. He and Sam have both tried to wheedle information out of him both separately and together. Castiel’s even thought about going and looking for himself before now, but he’s quite certain Dean would see that as crossing some kind of privacy line, a concept Castiel’s still trying to learn. If he was forced to go by Lucifer, however… but there’s wanting to know, and then there’s helping Lucifer; he doesn’t want to know that badly.

“What is it that you want from there?”

“A little angelic dicky-bird let slip that something of mine has come to light. A cup. I’ve been looking for it, off and on for a while. Sending you to go and fetch it seems quicker from where I’m sitting.”

“What does it do?”

“Need to know basis,” Lucifer says smiling. “And you don’t need to know.”

“In that case, I won’t go,” Castiel says.

“Well, you see,” says Lucifer, standing up and pacing over towards Castiel, “when I say I’m asking for a favor, I don’t actually mean I’m asking.” Lucifer rests his hands on the desk, either side of Castiel, boxing him in. 

Castiel doesn’t flinch. “The answer’s still no.”

“Well I know you wouldn’t do it to save yourself. And Sam? Well, threatening Sam would sort of defeat my purpose. But, Castiel, I can take Dean away from you.” Lucifer is inches away from Castiel’s face as he speaks; Castiel can feel his steamy hot breaths against his cheek and his nose and he wants to squirm and move away. He doesn’t. “No trips to Heaven. Straight to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars?” Castiel may not understand the reference but he gets the sentiment clear as a bell. “We’ll take in to account all his previous service, of course – he’ll get all the perks, all the benefits. He can go straight back to the rack and carve up some new souls; he was so good at it, before.” Lucifer smiles; it’s an evil, malicious thing, twisting his features sadistically. Still Castiel holds his ground. “But if you do this for me, Castiel, I promise you’ll get to go back to playing happy families with Deano as long as you both shall live. Admittedly, that’s not looking like it’ll be very long.” Lucifer shrugs, not caring.

“It’s an empty threat. You can’t find him.” Dean and Sam have so many wards and protections around them, even Castiel can’t find them by supernatural means.

“I don’t need to find him. He’ll find me, or rather he’ll find you, won’t he? I’ll wager he’ll come running if he thinks you need him.” 

Lucifer reaches one hand into his left jacket pocket and pulls out Castiel’s phone. The other reaches around his back and pulls a knife out from its sheaf. It has sigils curling, slithering almost, along the blade.

Lucifer clears his throat and the voice that comes out next is a perfect imitation of Castiel’s gravel tone. “Dean. I’m in trouble. I need your help.”

Lucifer thumbs the power on Castiel’s phone. “Speed dial one?”

Castiel starts out of the chair but only gets half-way to standing before he’s grabbed from behind by two of the watching demons and forced back into his seat. Lucifer drops the phone on to the bureau.

“What’s it to be Castiel?” asks Lucifer, one finger poised over the dial option on the phone.

“He won’t come; he’ll know it’s a trap,” Castiel grates out.

“Of course he might suspect it’s a trap, but he won’t know for sure.” Lucifer reaches down and swivel’s the chair with Castiel in it around to face the bureau. He wraps one large hand around Castiel’s wrists and forces Castiel’s hands down on to the desktop. “But if he hears you scream, he’ll come anyway.”

Lucifer lifts the hand that has the knife high above his head and he brings the knife down with enough force to slice clean through Castiel’s left hand, the blade sinking deep into the wood of the bureau, the hilt sticking out obscenely half way between Castiel’s knuckles and wrist. 

Castiel does scream, briefly; rough and unbidden before he chokes the rest back into a low groan. The pain takes his breath away and his hand jerks involuntarily causing the blade to do even more damage. 

Lucifer leans in to whisper in Castiel’s ear. “One little scream and he’ll come running.” Lucifer presses dial on Castiel’s phone.

The phone rings once, twice.

“What’s it to be Castiel? A quick trip to the future for you, or a quick trip to hell for the boyfriend?” Lucifer drops his hand to the hilt of the blade and nudges it just a little. Castiel gasps and bites his lip so hard he tastes blood. He glares at Lucifer.

Dean picks up, his voice tinny through the cheap speakers. “Cas? Where did you get to, man? You okay?” He doesn’t sound particularly worried.

Castiel doesn’t hesitate. He nods at Lucifer. Lucifer curls his mouth into a self-satisfied smirk. “I’m fine, Dean,” Lucifer says in Castiel’s voice. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” Dean starts to say something but Lucifer hangs up. Castiel will undoubtedly get an earful about his telephone manners when he turns up again; assuming Lucifer keeps his word.

Leaning forward, Lucifer grabs the hilt of the knife and pulls it out of Castiel’s hand before he has a chance to prepare himself. Castiel bites back another scream. Lucifer looks down at him impassively, then leans forward and removes the leather bindings from Castiel’s wrists. Castiel pulls his injured hand against his chest. Blood makes a pool in his palm and overflows past the webbing between his fingers, trickling down his wrist and under the cuff of his shirt; it covers the tan of the trenchcoat in wet, red blotches. He tries to heal it now the leather straps have gone but Lucifer just waves the bloody knife in front of his face, the purpose of the engravings in the blade becoming evident now. “You can’t,” Lucifer says, “don’t waste your energy.” Lucifer drops Castiel’s phone onto the desktop and after a moment’s hesitation where Castiel checks Lucifer’s expression for signs of malicious intent and finds none Castiel reaches out his right hand, picks the phone up and puts it away in its place in his coat pocket. 

“I won’t be happy if you try to double-cross me,” Lucifer says, “I found you once, I can find you again.”


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel lands clumsily in 2014, five centimeters above the ground, drops heavily, stumbles and falls, and rolls down a small incline in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs. His left hand is tucked in close to his chest, wrapped tightly in his tie, and he stifles a cry, cursing under his breath every time he crushes it on his journey down the slope. When he finally comes to a halt against a pile of wind-blown fall leaf-litter, he lies there on his back, winded, and puffing like he’s just run a marathon. He stares up at the sky where red swirling clouds mingle with charcoal black; it looks as if it’s on fire. Perhaps it is. He closes his eyes and blocks it out. 

While he waits to get his breath back, he discovers he knows a lot more insults in a lot more languages than he thought he did and he applies them all to himself, raging silently at his idiocy. He’s got himself, and potentially Dean and Sam, into another impossible situation. He can’t give Lucifer what he wants. All he’s done is buy time, but time to do what? 

The sky’s getting darker as evening rolls in swiftly; Castiel can tell the light’s not as bright behind his eyelids. He’s run out of insults in any case, so sighing dejectedly, he acknowledges the need to move and do something, whatever that something is. He opens his eyes and rolls off of his back and onto his knees. Distracted and not paying attention, he fails to notice he’s not alone. When he raises his head he finds himself face to face with the muzzle of a small silver automatic pistol. He stares at it cross-eyed for a moment before moving his focus along the barrel, across the slim, tanned hand holding it, up an arm covered in blue cotton, to an open collar, to stubble, to… oh.

It’s him. The stubble on his chin is more pronounced with flecks of grey peppered through it, his features are less fleshed out, his face is wan, drawn, more lived-in, older. But it’s actually him, Castiel – except for the fact that the man in front of him is just that – a man. Castiel’s not sure how he feels about that. No, scratch that. Castiel is very sure how he feels about that – he doesn’t like it; not one little bit.

“Well, look at you all shiny and angelic,” the man says. His voice is a little lighter than Castiel’s but undeniably his. The man nods at the gun. “Angel bullet, in case you’re wondering. Only one, but I never miss.”

Castiel clears his throat, “Hello, Castiel.”

“It’s just ‘Cas’ these days,” Cas says, matter-of-factly. “When are you from?”

“2010.” Castiel holds his good hand out. Hopefully he can show his intentions are harmless. “Can I get some help?” 

Cas looks at him appraisingly and then gives a goofy grin, “Sure,” he says, pocketing the gun and reaching down. Cas’s hand is cold to the touch but his grip is firm and assured and Castiel is pulled up swiftly to stare his counterpart in the eye. 

Cas’s pupils are dilated beyond what seems normal for the ambient light and he’s still grinning inanely. “Are you alright?” Castiel asks.

“I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I?” Cas counters, pointing to Castiel’s hand.

“I’m fine.”

If anything, Cas’s smile gets wider. “God, I really did used to say that, didn’t I? Wow.”

“Wow?”

“Never mind. Come on. Follow me. I’ve got some Vicodin for that hand.” Cas doesn’t wait for a reply before walking away to his right with a casual lope, and a slight limp. He gives one glance over his shoulder to make sure Castiel is following, but doesn’t seem to be in any doubt that he will, and of course, Castiel does. He’s partly here to satisfy his own curiosity after all.

They walk along some wooded tracks, not maintained but worn muddy with constant use, and Castiel notes that they’re not taking a direct route to wherever it is they’re going. There are paths leading off to the left, but they always take the path to the right even though it’s slowly looping around to the left. Castiel can hear the occasional noise from the left; voices, a door shutting, a tool being used, and Castiel realizes that they’re deliberately skirting the main camp. He’s curious about the camp, but it’s useful to have an ally and if Cas is willing to be that ally then Castiel will admit to being more than a little curious about Cas too. 

They walk for twenty minutes and as they walk it gets darker as the invisible sun sets somewhere behind the polluted sky. By the time they arrive at the back of a small wooden cabin, it’s almost impossible to see, though Castiel’s eyes adjust easily and Cas obviously knows the route well in any case, never putting a foot wrong. He lets himself be ushered into the cabin by Cas but, once there, Cas doesn’t seem to know what to do with him and Castiel’s not sure what the options are, so he doesn’t ask. They stand and stare at each other, and it makes Castiel want to smile, knowing that Dean would undoubtedly find the scene amusing. 

Eventually, Cas breaks the stare, scratches absently at the crook of his elbow through the cotton of his shirt, and asks, “What are you even doing here?”

Castiel sits down uninvited on the edge of the creaky bed and doesn’t answer straight away. He’s not sure which answer he should give to gain the larger advantage. 

Cas doesn’t seem to care that he doesn’t get an answer, changing the subject easily with a shrug. “Why can’t you heal your hand? You’ve got grace, I can still sense it.” 

“The knife was hexed,” Castiel replies, eyes roaming around the cabin with interest, noting the eclectic décor, a mix of spiritual and mystical symbolism, with film and war themes in posters and books. “Is this cabin yours?” he asks as his gaze turns back to Cas, who now has his back to him and is rummaging through a drawer.

“Yeah. You like?” Cas turns around and throws a bottle of Vicodin to Castiel, Castiel catching it easily in his right hand. 

“It’s unexpected.”

Cas looks around the small room at that comment, lets his focus steady for several minutes on one particular poster of a what seems to be a science fiction film, before turning back to Castiel, then rather obviously changing the subject again, nodding at Castiel’s hand. “So, you want me to fix that for you?” 

“You won’t be able to heal it,” Castiel says, opening the pill bottle awkwardly; there’re probably fifty pills in the bottle. Castiel thought they only came in bottles of ten; perhaps he should take them all? Ten never seems enough. He upends the bottle and swallows the lot. 

Cas’s grin slips a little as he watches Castiel and the result seems almost melancholy. “Bandages, disinfectant, stitches, I meant... if you’re staying,” Cas says. 

“Oh,” says Castiel. “Then, yes. Thank you. It’ll be several hours before I have the power to go back.”

They’re both silent as Cas walks around the small cabin, pulling open a few drawers and digging out bits and pieces of medical supplies that he puts on the bed beside Castiel. He picks up another pill bottle from a small wooden table, shakes a couple out and swallows. 

“You want some?” Cas says, rattling the bottle.

“What are they?” Castiel eyes the bottle warily.

Cas looks at the label and checks. “Amphetamines.” He lifts an eyebrow in invitation but Castiel shakes his head. He knows what amphetamines are and even if he wanted to experience their effect, which he doesn’t, he’s fairly sure it wouldn’t be sensible to mix them with the painkillers he’s just taken. 

He’s also doubtful if Cas should be taking them when he’s just about to stitch up Castiel’s injured hand. It must show in his face. 

“Don’t look down your nose at me. You have no idea.” Cas turns his back on Castiel, his shoulders visibly trembling under the thin shirt. “Don’t judge me. I was you once, remember? All righteous and pure and fucking innocent, and one day, you’ll be me.”

“I apologize,” Castiel says quickly, taken aback. “I’m not judging. But I would like to understand. Perhaps it doesn’t have to be this way.”

Cas turns back aggressively to face Castiel. He points at the empty Vicodin bottle that Castiel discarded on the bed and sneers. “You’re already starting to understand. So what are you now – cut off from the host? You’re already on the slippery slope to humanity where you can wallow in the mud with all the other mud-dwellers, where you bleed and break and you can’t fix it, where you fall and no-one bothers to catch you because you’re useless now so why should they.” Cas waves the amphetamine bottle in the air. “These are the only friends you have. Be grateful for them.”

“Dean – ”

“Dean has his own problems.” Cas shuts him down quickly. “Let me give you some advice – don’t rely on anyone except yourself. You’ll only end up disappointed and prolong the inevitable.”

“Is Dean here? I’d like to see him.” 

“He’s here. But you don’t want to see him. He’s not what you remember.”

“All the same – ”

“No,” Cas says, his tone sharp. He looks anxious under the veneer of the drugged haze. “I don’t want you to see him. I don’t want him to see you.”

There’s an awkward couple of minutes, though Castiel suspects the awkwardness is his alone. He stares intensely at Cas, keen to find out more and trying to work out the best way to do that. He doesn’t know how to talk to this Cas though – doesn’t know what will trigger the right response and what will trigger the wrong one. 

Eventually, he says, “alright, I won’t try and see Dean,” knowing that he will. He needs to find out as much as he can of what Dean saw when Dean was here. If Cas won’t tell him, maybe the Dean from now will. If the opportunity doesn’t naturally present itself, he’ll make his own opportunity. He knows there’ll be differences – Zachariah twisting Dean’s experience to suit his own purpose as well as differences forcing them down a different path in the two months since Dean’s trip. Mostly though it will be the same. He’s certain, for instance, that his Dean met this Cas. Comments like ‘don’t ever change’ make a lot more sense in context.

The lie seems to satisfy Cas, though whether he believes it or not isn’t clear. “So, do you want me to fix that or not?” Cas nods at Castiel’s hand.

Castiel offers up his injured hand, and Cas pulls up a wooden chair, dropping down into it to face Castiel, taking Castiel’s wrist and unwrapping the blue tie that’s heavy with clotting blood. His touch is slow and deliberate, gentle and precise. The tie is discarded into a small plastic bowl set on the wooden floor, and Cas sets to cleaning the ugly knife wound. Castiel watches the top of Cas’s head as he works, bites his lip and tries not to flinch, grateful for the numbing effect of the Vicodin even if he’s starting to despise himself for taking it. In fact, he now has a mental image of Dean buying bottles of fifty from his black market source then carefully separating them into bottles of ten. Castiel would never have questioned it before; now he finds he’s questioning all sorts of things.

“You’re lucky the knife missed all but one bone and all the tendons, too,” Cas notes, interrupting Castiel’s thoughts as he starts to stitch. It brings Castiel back to Lucifer and his cup. Castiel considers that Cas is highly likely to know where to find what it is that he’s ostensibly here to collect, if it is actually here. It’s as good a distraction as any as Cas pulls another thread tight, knotting it deftly around the needle. 

“I’m here to find a cup,” Castiel says.

“Lucifer’s cup,” Cas says with a puffed out breath. It’s surprised but it’s not a question. “To be honest, I’ve been expecting someone to turn up to claim it ever since we found the damned thing – didn’t think it would be you, though.” Cas doesn’t look up, just keeps stitching. 

“I don’t know what it does,” Castiel says.

Cas does pause then and looks up, “Who are you looking on behalf of?” he says. When Castiel doesn’t answer immediately, he continues, “Come on; I know you. You’re me. You never do anything for yourself, so who?”

“Dean,” he says. It’s the indirect truth.

Cas shakes his head, “Dean wouldn’t want it. Can’t use it. Has to be either the angels or the devil, so which is it?”

“Lucifer,” Castiel admits, expecting objections.

“Hmm,” Cas mumbles, non-committal, and goes back to his stitching. Even though he’s doing it carefully it hurts and Castiel’s hand twitches involuntarily in Cas’s light grip. “Keep still and stop being such a baby,” Cas hisses, “it’s not that bad.”

Castiel tries and fails to ignore the insult. “What does ‘hmm’ mean, exactly?” he asks irritably.

“The cup changes things,” Cas says, “and not for the good. You put plain water into it, and you pour it back out. What comes out is… well, it’s hard to describe, but it’s not good. You really want to give that to Lucifer?” He glances up and he takes too long to focus on Castiel’s face before he looks back down to Castiel’s hand. For a moment, Cas seems to be trying to remember what exactly he was doing. 

It takes all Castiel’s willpower to leave his hand where it is, in the care of a man with a very sharp needle and questionable competence. When Cas reaches over, picks up a bottle that’s standing on the floor by the bed and gulps down some potent smelling liquid, Castiel’s willpower nearly fails him. He closes his eyes and forces himself not to say or do anything that might cause Cas’s mood to change again.

“I don’t intend to give it to him,” Castiel says, forcing himself to concentrate on something other than the needle being pulled slowly through the skin on the back of his hand.

“And how do you expect to get away with that?” Cas asks, taking two of Castiel’s fingers and turning his hand palm up, then back to palm down. Checking his work, Castiel assumes. Seemingly satisfied, Cas picks up a clean makeshift bandage and proceeds to wrap Castiel’s hand with it. 

“I haven’t exactly worked that out yet,” Castiel says. 

Cas ties the end of the bandage around Castiel’s wrist in a neat knot and tucks the loose ends in under the cloth. “Done,” he says. He stands up and nudges past Castiel to crawl behind him onto the bed. He picks up the bottle again and takes a longer drink. “I’m guessing you don’t sleep, but I do. You need to stay in the cabin; there are a lot of angel blades around and almost everyone here has one. And don’t ask why there are a lot of blades around – you really don’t want to know. In the morning I’ll sort out your problem for you.” 

“The cup?” Castiel asks.

“In a roundabout way, yeah.”

“I have questions,” Castiel says uncertainly and he looks around the cabin, “About all this. About you. About Dean.”

“You know I don’t think I should tell you,” Cas says. He taps the side of his nose with the tip of a slender finger, “time traveler’s honor.” When Castiel looks confused, Cas eye-rolls in a way that’s worryingly similar to Dean. “And anyway,” Cas continues, ignoring Castiel’s confusion and turning his own hands over to show the front, then the back, “no scars, see? This isn’t your future. What would be the point in sharing?”

“Some of it will be my future,” Castiel insists, “Details may change but some of this will happen.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Cas says, mumbling with seemingly little interest. He puts the bottle down by the bed with the over-precise movements of someone not entirely sober and rolls away from Castiel, onto his side, facing the wall. He curls up like a child, his knees up by his chin and his arms tucked in tight. Castiel waits for him to say something else, to expand or elaborate. He doesn’t. Instead Cas’s breaths get slow and even; he’s asleep within minutes. 

Castiel glances at the passed out figure on the bed. What will it take for him to turn into that? But then two years ago, he couldn’t imagine himself as what he is now so is it really that farfetched? Taking anything that’s seen in the future as an absolute truth is folly, but Castiel considers what, if anything, he would have done differently if two years ago he’d had an inkling of where he was heading. The choices he made that led him to where he is now seem to have been so completely random and out of character that surely he made his own future. He looks across again at Cas. Cas is a quiet sleeper; his back moves very slightly under the thin cotton of his shirt as he breathes. If Castiel made his future once, he can do it again. This doesn’t have to be him.

He stands up. He may as well satisfy his curiosity while he has the chance. He probably has at least four hours based on what he knows about human sleep patterns. Carefully, he cracks opens the door of the cabin and peeks out. Cas said to stay here but he doesn’t need to know if Castiel takes a look around and it’s a long time since Castiel felt the need to obey anyone. 

It’s quiet outside, not even any insects let alone any people. There’s candle light in the windows of some of the other cabins but most of them are dark. Stepping lightly onto the small deck, he looks around again, before walking briskly down the small flight of wooden steps and crossing quickly to the shadow of the woods that surround the camp. Once there, he turns and he watches. After ten minutes, he sees a guard, rifle pointing up to the sky, patrolling around the camp, but he passes quickly and he doesn’t really seem to be expecting trouble. 

After getting the lay of the land, and when he’s fairly sure he’s assessed how best he can stay away from the camp’s residents, Castiel walks around a little, taking care to stay in shadow. He takes in the general atmosphere of decay and not a little despair. These people are not some kind of proud resistance; they are under siege and they know it – holding out for a future they no longer believe in. When he reaches the rusted out Impala his heart lurches in an uncomfortable way that he’s becoming all too depressingly familiar with as a human reaction to something upsetting. And he is upset. Dean’s car; Dean’s ‘baby’. The Impala’s broken; he’s… no not him – ‘Cas’, is broken... for Dean to let this happen… Castiel can’t imagine the circumstances. 

He’s staring so intently through the broken window of the car that he almost misses the slight sound behind him, twisting just in time to grab the arm that is swinging a gleaming silver blade. The hand jerks, trying to pull away, and the owner grunts and pushes into Castiel. Castiel stands fast, not giving an inch. He swings around, forcing his attacker’s back against the car but trying not to hurt him at the same time. And there he stops, his hands gripping the attacker’s wrists above his head, Castiel’s mouth and eyes wide in surprise. He stares at Dean, stares at Dean’s angry, glaring face looking him up and down, taking in the coat and the suit and the short, neat hair.

“Cas? This isn’t fucking funny. I nearly killed you.”

“Hello, Dean.”

So much in Dean has visibly changed. Not only is he physically older but he’s cold and cut off; the green eyes no longer sparkle. His Dean’s eyes sparkle all the time with something – anger, lust, humor. This Dean looks as if he hasn’t smiled in a long time.

“You’re not you, it’s a trick,” Dean practically hisses before dropping his weapon and grabbing Castiel’s lapels with one bunched fist, while swinging the other fist back and bringing it forward to connect with Castiel’s cheek. Castiel moves with it to save Dean’s hand from breaking, but Dean still hits him hard.

“Fuck. You are you.” Dean shakes his hand out. “How?” Dean reaches out his hand to feel Castiel’s cheek where he hit him, “How? I mean it’s you, Cas. It’s really you?”

~~xxx~~

Castiel sits in Dean’s cabin, waiting as the sun rises, brightening the light outside the window. He’s alone, his hands in his lap, the good hand picking idly at the bandage on the injured one. 

Castiel hadn’t known how to react to the Dean in front of him, muttering and murmuring, swinging between fond and angry. Then Cas had appeared from the shadows, nervously approaching Dean and Castiel, he’d tentatively gathered Dean up, like it wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Cas had looked pathetically relieved when Dean had peeled away from Castiel and gone with him and Castiel realized sadly that Cas hadn’t been sure he would. Castiel had watched while they’d walked together towards Cas’s cabin, Cas’s arm around Dean’s waist, and Dean’s around Cas’s shoulders, unexpectedly close after what Cas had told Castiel earlier. Dean had glanced over his shoulder once at Castiel and then he’d turned very pointedly back to Cas and had tightened his grip on his shoulders and pulled him in closer. Castiel was left unsure who was comforting and protecting whom.

Castiel had stayed where he was for half an hour before deciding they weren’t coming back and then he’d hunted around the camp for a cabin likely to be Dean’s where he could wait. The jumble of stuff on the small porch, some of which Castiel recognized and some of which was just Dean-like, had given this cabin away. When he’d let himself in the presence of small things like Dean’s father’s journal had just served to confirm Dean’s ownership. 

He probably shouldn’t have gone around opening drawers and cupboards to glean what he could but there wasn’t much to find in any case; few personal possessions, toiletries and essentials, maps and other strategic and tactical aids showing signs of a long war, and a small bottle of painkillers with a scribbled, bold message on the label, ‘hands off Cas’. He’d dropped the bottle onto the bed in disappointment.

By the time he hears the noise of heavy boots on the wooden steps outside he’s been sitting contemplating his slide from a poor example of an angel to a poor example of a human for far too long.

Dean doesn’t look surprised to see him when the door opens. Castiel stands up, tensing on the balls of his feet, ready for flight if necessary. Dean’s gruff and business-like and his eyes land anywhere except on Castiel. “He’s waiting in his cabin. He’s got what you want. I want you to take it, and then I want you to go. I don’t want to see you again.”

“I want to know what happened, here. To you. To him.” Castiel moves his head and tries to catch Dean’s eye. It would be easy with his Dean, he doesn’t know why it’s so hard with this one.

Dean walks in to the body of the cabin, giving Castiel a wide berth and he scowls when he spots the bottle of painkillers on the bed where Castiel dropped it last night. 

“You want to know what happened… ” Dean starts angrily, picking the bottle up and stopping abruptly when he shakes it and it rattles. He looks up sharply at Castiel. “You didn’t take them.” 

“No.”

Neither of them speaks. 

“Sam said yes,” Dean says abruptly, looking away at the ground by his feet. “Two years ago. Two years after I last saw him.”

“Oh.” Castiel hadn’t really expected that, but he supposes he should have seen the possibility.

“I lost it,” Dean continues. “Cas tried to help, but I pushed him away. Then he fell and I wasn’t there for him – these were.” Dean rattles the bottle again. He pauses and wipes a hand over his face, before lifting his head and finally looking Castiel directly in the eye. “You remind him of what he was, of how far he’s fallen. He’s scared shitless you’ll remind me of that, too. Fuck, but I wish he wasn’t what he is, but he’s still Cas. So I need you to leave because I hate fucking seeing him like this.” 

Dean turns his back to Castiel. Castiel doesn’t move. There are still things he wants to ask – things he wants to say, though he knows he doesn’t know how. The level of subtlety required is beyond him.

“Which part of I need you to leave did you not get?” Dean growls.

“Dean… for what it’s worth – I am sorry that it’s turned out this way.”

Dean whirls on him, his face equal mixes of anger, frustration and desperation as he curls a fist into Castiel’s coat and Castiel lets himself be pushed back into the wall.

“What good are your apologies? You’re all about the apologies. It’s not your fault. It’s not even his fault. I tell him every day – every fucking day - that I love him, and it’s both not enough and too late. So when you get back, you tell Dean to get his head out of his ass because he’s the one who can change this.”  
“How? How does he do that exactly?” Castiel demands.

“Jeez,” Dean says, moving away, but with aggression still in his stance. “In any damn way he can think of. You need to stop Lucifer. So Dean should probably say yes to Michael.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Castiel says angrily.

“Then he has to stop Sam saying yes to Lucifer. Anything… anything that stops us coming to this point.” Dean lifts his jaw defiantly. “Tomorrow, I’m going to fetch the colt,” Dean says. “Five years we’ve been looking for it. We’re going to kill the devil.”

“You can’t. The colt doesn’t work. We tried.” Castiel takes an inadvertent step forward, as if he can do something physically to derail the plan.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I suspected as much. But, you see, we don’t have anything else. No other options left. Maybe it’ll knock him down long enough for us to finish him off with angel blades and demon knives.”

“You’ll be killed.”

“So?”

“Don’t you care?”

“Not really, no.”

“What about Cas? He’ll care if you’re killed.”

“Cas will come with me. Cas always comes with me.” Dean looks at him through lowered lids. “Isn’t that what you’d do.”

Castiel drops his head and examines the toes of his shoes, before looking up again. “Yes. Yes, of course I would.” Castiel puts on a false smile. “So, you’re Thelma and he’s Louise and you’re going to hold hands and sail off that cliff together?”

He thinks he’s got it wrong for a moment when Dean stares at him eyes wide, but then Dean laughs. But it’s not a happy laugh, the sound rough and raw, and it stops as suddenly as it started. “You’re different,” Dean says seriously. “I’m really sorry it ends this way.”

~~xxx~~

Castiel flies to Cas’ cabin, landing smoothly in the main room. Cas is pacing restlessly, his hands trembling as he pulls nervously at the hem of his shirt. He looks exhausted but mostly sober; maybe the one comes with the other.

“I’m sorry that I came,” Castiel says, genuinely repentant.

Cas looks over at him, “What did Dean say?” he asks with resignation.

Where does he start? “I suspect nothing you don’t already know,” Castiel says in the end. “He’s keen for me to leave.” He looks around the cabin for the cup but there’s nothing that looks likely.

Cas relaxes a little. “I bet. Yeah, well, I have something for you.” Cas crosses the room to a far wall as he speaks. He flicks a finger at a line of decorative woven dream catchers pinned to the wall. Castiel tilts his head, only politely curious.

“What do you see?” Cas asks.

Castiel looks closer. “Sigils,” he says, surprised, his interest piqued. He walks over to the dream catchers and reads the sigils woven into them with feathers and silk. “You did these?” Castiel asks, turning back to Cas, impressed.

Cas nods.

“And yet you haven’t used them. Why not?”

“I don’t have the mojo.” Cas shrugs. “But you could make it work.”

Castiel frowns. “I’m not sure I can.” He turns back to the sigils. They’re very clever, very intricate, but they need a lot of power, possibly more than he’s got left. And there’s something else. He turns back to Cas, licks his lips nervously.

“You see it?” Cas asks, though his face shows he already knows the answer.

Castiel inclines his head in the affirmative. 

“You don’t have to do it,” Cas says, calmly giving him an out as if it’s not the end of the world at stake here. “It’s obviously your call.”

“Does Dean know?”

“No. Dean doesn’t even know these are sigils, let alone what they do. There didn’t seem to be any point in telling him if I couldn’t actually use them. Will you tell your Dean?”

Castiel considers for a moment. “I’ll tell him what they do. I’ll need his help. And Sam’s. But I won’t tell him – ”

“ – that it’s almost certain to kill you in the process?”

“No,” Castiel says, slowly. “I won’t tell him that.”

Cas shrugs again. “There’s a chance you’ll survive, you know.”

“Slim.” Castiel turns to Cas, grasping for other options. “You’ve had four extra years. Is there nothing else? No other way?”

Cas shakes his head. “Nothing,” then adds, “I’m sorry.”

“Dean said you’re going to try the colt. Maybe – ”

Cas interrupts before he can finish the thought. “And we both know how that’s gonna go.” Cas pauses, then he looks, really looks, at Castiel for the first time since Castiel got there. “I’m tired. Dean’s tired. There’s nothing left for us; we’re out of options. You’re not yet.”


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel lands in the motel room he woke up in two days ago, stumbling straight into Sam’s flailing arms. 

“Holy hell,” Sam exclaims loudly, wrapping one huge hand around Castiel’s bicep and a strong arm around his back. “What happened to you?”

“Cas?” The bathroom door is flung open and Dean pokes his head out, partway through shaving, one half of his chin tidy and smooth, the other half still covered with foam. When he spots Sam holding Castiel upright as he sways unsteadily on his feet, he comes all the way into the room and takes Cas’s other arm. “You okay? What happened?”

“You’re still here,” Castiel says in relieved surprise. It was a gamble coming here, but he’d known he’d only have enough power for one flight.

“Yeah, well after that phone call yesterday, we thought we’d better hang around,” Dean says, watching his face closely. “What the hell was that anyway? I mean, I know I asked you to check in more regularly, but if you’re gonna be making calls like that then I gotta tell you it’s gonna make us more worried, not less.”

“I apologize.” Cas shakes them off gently as he regains some of his balance. “I’m fine. Finish shaving, Dean.” Dean looks at him doubtfully, so Cas adds, “You look ridiculous.” He’s rewarded with a swift smile, and Dean ducks back into the bathroom, leaving the door open. 

“What happened?” Sam asks, ushering Castiel over to sit him on one of the beds. 

“Don’t start without me,” Dean yells from the bathroom. 

“Are you still sick?” Sam asks, ignoring his brother, “after taking us to 1978? ‘Cause, you know, I’m really sorry about that, man.” 

“No, and there’s nothing to be sorry for.” Castiel wipes a hand around the back of his neck to remove the layer of sweat he can feel before it can trickle disgustingly down his back. He closes his eyes and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead to try and ease the headache that’s forming.

“Then what – ”

“What happened to your hand?” Dean asks. Castiel hadn’t heard him come back into the room; he opens his eyes. “And where the hell’s your frigging tie?”

~~xxx~~

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to give them the edited highlights both of what happened in Carthage and of his experiences in 2014. He leaves a lot out, some intentionally. He sees Dean putting pieces together in his head with what he himself saw, drawing conclusions; most are probably correct, some probably not so much. The emotions on Dean’s face swing rapidly backwards and forwards between uncomfortable, angry and pensive.

When he’s finished, Castiel gets an endless stream of questions from Sam – who’s understandably fascinated – but he answers most of them vaguely, much to Sam’s obvious dissatisfaction. Castiel’s not going to be the one to tell Sam he’d said yes to Lucifer, and he balks at sharing much on future Dean and Cas either. For all that he admonished Dean for not sharing information about his own visit to that time, Castiel now has an appreciation as to why he didn’t. 

“It wasn’t the same as you saw, Dean. Not the detail,” he says as he finishes up the telling, and Dean hangs his head low, staring in seeming fascination at his knees. Castiel can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“We can change the detail, but we’re always going to end up in the same place,” Dean murmurs, unhappily. 

Castiel reaches a hand out to lay it against Dean’s forearm. He’s frightened by both the practicalities of what he must now do, and by the subterfuge that’s a necessary part of it, but the look of inevitability on Dean’s face and the sound of it in his voice chases away the doubts he didn’t even know he harbored until now.

“Well, maybe we don’t have to end up in the same place,” Castiel says, “My future self designed some sigils that can put Lucifer back in his cage.”

Dean leans back into his chair and says sarcastically, “So you took half an hour telling us about your vacation and omitted to tell us that you have a way of re-caging Lucifer? It didn’t strike you as important enough to maybe mention that first? What’s the catch?” 

“There’s no catch,” Castiel lies, feeling guilty for how easily Dean and Sam accept what he says. “If I can build up sufficient power to use the sigils effectively, the ritual itself is simple.”

“Can I see those sigils, Cas?” Sam asks.

Castiel rummages in various coat pockets with his good hand and notes the surprise on both his friends faces as he draws out the eight dream catchers. 

“That’s… pretty cool,” Sam says.

“Perhaps, but fragile; we should transcribe them onto something more permanent,” Castiel says seriously to Sam, and hands them over. Sam nods once and takes the dream catchers to the other side of the room where he lays them out on the table and picks up a thick pen and his notebook and starts sketching. Sam can barely contain his excitement and it’s possible that Castiel has let his normally stoic expression slip into something unusually fond if the small huff of amusement from his right side is anything to go by.

“At the risk of further ruining your tough guy image,” Dean says, still smiling, “I should take a look at that hand to make sure no nasty future infections got in there.” 

Castiel’s perfectly capable of doing that himself but he’s come to understand that’s not really the point, so while Sam painstakingly draws out the sigils, Castiel lets Dean fuss over his injured hand more for Dean’s benefit than his own. Gradually the tension in Dean’s shoulders unwinds as easily as the homemade bandage that he rolls around his fingers as he goes. 

“You from the future did this?” Dean asks when the old dressing has come off and the stitched wound is being carefully examined. “Maybe he wasn’t as out of it as he seemed. It’s not too shoddy.”

“He was completely under the influence of narcotics at the time,” Castiel replies, smiling sadly when Dean glances up, “He took twice as long as you would have taken. But he was very precise.”

“Why’d you let him?”

“I needed his help,” Castiel says. He could add, for the same reasons I’m letting you..

“So, the wound is pretty bad, and it’s going to be sore for a while,” Dean looks down at Castiel’s hand again, “but you’ll live. I’ll wash it and re-wrap it and get you some painkillers.”

“No,” Castiel says, sharper than he’d intended. Dean jerks his head up. “No,” Castiel repeats, softer.

Castiel sees the moment Dean gets it, his eyes narrowing in understanding, his face softening in sympathy. “Don’t take 2014 to heart, Cas. Some things need painkillers.” 

“No, I can manage.”

“You’ll be able to use your hand more if you – ”

“I said no, Dean,” Castiel says firmly.

“Okay, man.” Dean leans back, splays his fingers and holds up his hands in mock surrender, “It’s your hand.” He picks up a clean bandage and starts pulling it out of its packaging. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sam turns around in his chair and stretches his back out, reaching his long arms above his head in an apparent attempt to touch fingertips to ceiling, watching silently until Dean has finished wrapping the bandage around Castiel’s hand and the end is taped down around Castiel’s wrist. 

“So, Cas,” he says when they’re done, picking up one of the pages that he’s copied the sigils onto, “Now that we’ve got these, how do we use them, exactly?”

Castiel stands up, crosses the room and takes the piece of paper out of Sam’s hand. He turns it one-eighty degrees so that it’s the right way up and stares at it briefly, before putting it down on the table with the others. “It’s actually fairly easy,” he says, but his eyes shift away and down, briefly. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He’s not that good at lying, even by omission.

“You’ve gone all shifty,” Dean says, pointing a finger towards Castiel. “I’m not going to like this, am I?” 

Castiel shrugs. “Not much,” he says. He sits in the second chair at the table so he can see both Sam and Dean. “Cas – me, in the future – had no power left and so he couldn’t use the sigils he designed – which are brilliant by the way.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Modest much?”

“I’m just stating a fact, Dean. They’re unbreakable. For anyone to come up with them, let alone an angel cut off from the resources of the host. Let alone someone dealing with… well, putting it bluntly, I’m impressed,” Castiel openly admits. “But to use them needs a lot of power; I don’t have that much now.”

“Then what do we do?” asks Sam.

“I’m guessing we’ve got to the bit I’m not going to like,” Dean says unhappily. “And I’m guessing there’s more to it than just getting Cas to eat more spinach.”

“There’s only one thing I can think of,” Castiel says, “and that’s to stop using my ‘mojo’ as you call it, and let my grace rebuild my power to the maximum that circumstances will allow.”

“Isn’t that going to be kind of risky?” Sam says, worrying at his bottom lip while he thinks it through. “Does that mean using no angel powers at all?”

“It’s too dangerous,” says Dean, instinctively.

“I don’t like it much more than you do,” agrees Castiel. In fact he’s terrified by the idea but he can hardly tell Dean that; that piece of information would likely be one of many deal-breakers as far as getting Dean on board with this goes. 

“So you’ll effectively be human?” Dean asks unhappily. 

“Yes. But it will be worth the temporary inconvenience if it works.”

“How long?” 

“Maybe a week. Maybe two.”

“Jeez, Cas, this is such a bad idea.” Dean runs a hand through his hair and looks at Sam. For a moment the brothers stare at each other and Castiel simply waits. There’s a silent conversation going on and he knows better than to interrupt. Finally Dean looks back at Castiel. 

“I guess we can do a week,” Dean says, still very obviously not pleased. “But we need to stay away from your shitty brothers, black-eyed scum and anything with teeth and claws.”

“We need to be vigilant, I agree, but I’m not useless without my powers. I’d like to help you and Sam hunt.” 

Dean glares at Castiel. “Fine – Sam, find us a hunt.”

“Give me your knife,” Castiel says to Dean.

“Why? Oh, hell – I’m not going to like this either am I?”

“I can’t just turn it on and off at will, Dean. I have to lock it down; put it out of reach. Give me your knife.”

“Cas – ”

“Dean, it’s the only way.” 

Dean looks at Sam, still sitting working away at the laptop pretending not to listen. “Sam, can we get a minute here?”

Sam glances from one to the other, sighs with what Castiel suspects may actually be relief, and grabs his laptop from the table. “I’ll be in the coffee shop on the corner when you’re ready.” 

Castiel waits until the door has closed behind Sam before leaning in to take both Dean’s hands in his own. 

“Sorry, Cas but I don’t like where you’re going with this. I don’t see why we can’t work around it. If you have to stop using your mojo, fine, I guess I can live with that, but don’t cut yourself off. That’s dumb. What if something happens?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I can’t help but use it if it’s there and I can tap into it. It’s as natural to me as sight, or hearing is.” He slides down onto his knees and slots himself in between Dean’s thighs and holds Dean’s stare. There is no other way than this way as far as Castiel can see and it’s not through lack of wanting there to be.

Castiel has lived for millions of years, met many humans, even made human friends, but he’s never had anything like this relationship that he has with Dean before and for all that it drives him mad sometimes trying to make sense of his new range of powerful and conflicting feelings, he’s indescribably sad that he has to give it up after so short a time. But removing Lucifer from Earth far outweighs anything that Castiel wants, and although he knows that Dean will grieve his loss, he also knows that Dean will get over it and move on, especially if he still has Sam. 

He reaches a hand out, palm against Dean’s jaw. Dean taught him this – the strength in an intimate touch. “Lucifer used our friendship against me. He knows he can now so he’ll do it again, and again, and again. We have to stop him; if it wasn’t imperative before, it is now. We have to take every opportunity that comes up. I’m guessing that in your version of 2014, Sam said yes to Lucifer, as he did in mine?” 

Dean nods reluctantly. “Thanks for not telling him, man.”

“You’re welcome.” Castiel leans up to kiss Dean, long and slow, open-mouthed and filthy. Dean taught him this too. He feels Dean’s groin swelling between them where it lies against Castiel’s sternum.

“That’s not fair, man,” Dean says, even as he opens his legs wider to give Castiel more space and drops his face onto the top of Castiel’s head. “You’re going to use sex against me?”

“Is it working?”

Dean laughs quietly. “Not yet. Try harder.”

Castiel smiles and slides his good hand under the hem of Dean’s shirts and up his chest to tease a thumb over an already hard nipple.

“Lucifer won’t give up, Dean. Nor will Michael. We have a chance here to put an end to it. We have to try. For Sam’s sake, and for yours.”

Dean’s breath huffs warmly against Castiel’s neck as Castiel runs his fingertips down Dean’s ribs to his hip, circling his thumb over the smooth skin that stretches over the bone. Dean shivers and hums in pleasure from deep in his throat.

“Is it working now?” Cas asks, smirking.

“Getting better, Cas.” Dean says, sliding a hand to the back of Castiel’s neck, winding Castiel’s short hair in and around his fingers. “But I still don’t like it. You don’t know how to fight without your mojo.” 

“I’m a fast learner,” Castiel says, nudging Dean to encourage him not to stop playing with his hair.

Castiel nuzzles into Dean’s neck and licks at the hollow between Dean’s collar-bones before turning his head slightly and suckling on the knob of bone that is rubbing at the corner of his mouth. There’s a small scar there that Castiel likes to feel along with the tip of his tongue, enjoying the sensation of the small patch of roughness in the midst of the otherwise unblemished patch of skin. 

Dean kisses Castiel’s hair, bends his head down to kiss his temple, warm, soft lips brush against Castiel’s skin and Dean’s tongue pokes out, hot and wet, to lay a slick line along Castiel’s cheekbone. Castiel lifts his head, presses his mouth to Dean’s, lets the kiss linger before pulling back with a soft tug of Dean’s bottom lip.

“It won’t be forever, Dean. Just for a week. I want you safe. I want Sam safe,” Castiel says as he fumbles at the fastening of Dean’s jeans with his injured hand, because that’s currently his only unoccupied hand. Dean takes Castiel’s wrist and moves Castiel’s hand away, then undoes his own button and zipper, lifting his hips and sliding his pants and boxers down just far enough to free his penis.

“What makes you think I don’t want the same for you?” Dean mumbles through a gasp as Castiel drops his head and circles his tongue around the head of Dean’s cock. “Sure,” Dean puffs as Castiel licks a stripe down Dean’s length. It twitches against Castiel’s mouth. “Fuck… I get it, Cas. Really I do, but… fuck, Cas, Jeez.” 

Castiel lays open-mouthed kisses from Dean’s balls to the head of his cock and his tongue teases at the ridge of spongy flesh. Dean’s fingers curl into Castiel’s hair, blunt nails scraping at his scalp and Castiel pushes up into it, enjoying the feeling. 

“But… ” Dean tries to continue, “Cas… I... ” Castiel opens his mouth and lowers it over and around Dean, slowly taking him in. “And it’s like – oh, God yeah, like that.” Castiel sets up a rhythm, bobbing his head evenly up and down, pressing his tongue along the hard ridge, wrapping his lips tight around the head, tasting Dean before he sinks back down again, “… so it’s like I worry, even when you have your mojo… ” Castiel swipes his thumb over Dean’s nipple before bringing his hand out to wrap around the base of Dean’s cock. His mouth slides down to meet his fist as his hand and his head pump in sync. “… and now,” Dean tries again, talking in-between heavy puffs, “… now it’s like I’m going to have something to really worry about and… oh, fuck… Cas, God I love you, do that again… and crap… imgonnacomeimgonnacome… ”. 

Castiel feels hot spurts of semen against the roof of his mouth and he releases Dean with a pop. His hand keeps milking Dean through the rest of his orgasm, until Dean squirms uncomfortably. Quiet for once, Dean stands up on unsteady legs, reaches a hand down to pull Castiel to his feet. He leads him to the bed and pushes him back on to the mattress. 

“Plus, your angel mojo gives you great stamina,” Dean says and he winks, starting to undo Castiel’s pants and quickly stripping Castiel to nothing before following suit and straddling over Castiel’s lap with a wriggle to get comfortable that makes Castiel jerk upwards involuntarily to meet him.

“You make a good argument,” Castiel gasps, as Dean moves closer and leans in to kiss him, “but…”

“… but you’re still going to do it.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“You will be,” Dean says, sliding his ass slowly against the ridge of Castiel’s penis. 

If Castiel intentionally draws out the last opportunity he’s going to have to benefit from his angel stamina, then Dean certainly doesn’t seem to mind.


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel waits by the car while Dean and Sam go and find lunch in the roadside diner. He’s too restless to sit and watch them eat, and he doesn’t feel hungry, not that he knows what that will feel like but he’s heard Dean’s stomach rumbling enough times so he supposes that will happen to him too; so far, all’s been quiet on the involuntary bodily noises front.

Dean is, of course, being Dean, and despite his capitulation yesterday, or perhaps because of it, he’s been vocal in making his disapproval of Cas’s ‘human holiday’ obvious to everyone and he’s pointedly not doing anything that is helpful; in fact he is being deliberately unhelpful. 

This morning, after a long hour of meaningful glances with his brother, Sam had given in, with a put-upon huff of genuine annoyance, and had taken Castiel into the local wood outside town to practice shooting with the various types of guns they might end up using. It’s not something that Castiel finds comes naturally to him but at the end of two hours he’s at least effective, even if he doesn’t excel. Predictably, Castiel’s much better at close-quarter combat with blades, especially with his own sword; he’s fast and agile and he beat Sam in sparring nearly every time.

“Most times,” Sam had said, rising to his feet, taking Castiel’s proffered arm to help pull himself up, “if you’re close enough to use a blade, you’re probably too close to be safe.” He’d picked up a small silver automatic from the five weapons they’d practiced with and had handed it to Castiel, “You were pretty good with this one; it’s one of Dad’s old guns and we hardly ever use it, but it’s a good weapon. Hang on to this one, it’s yours now.” 

Castiel had accepted it reluctantly, a vision of his hand, more tanned, wrapped around the grip and hadn’t admitted to Sam that he’d seen it before.

Now Castiel grips the gun tightly in his coat pocket as he stands and waits outside the diner, the shape fitting neatly into his hand. He’s almost pulled it out of his pocket five times so far, as customers come and go; he can’t tell who’s friend and who’s foe anymore. Everyone looks suspicious to him. They have so many enemies out there and despite his reassurances to Dean and to Sam, without his power, he’s got little hope of stopping any but the more mundane monster. Demons and angels are going to be difficult, and Lucifer will know by now that Castiel is back without his cup, and he’s not going to be very happy. 

Dean and Sam have at least sat near a window at Castiel’s insistence and they look over occasionally. Sam gives a thumbs-up. Dean looks worried – has done since yesterday when he cut the binding mark into Castiel’s wrist just above his injured hand. Castiel keeps an eye on them and tries not to be too obviously twitchy. Dean says it makes him look like a stalker, and from the way Dean said it, Castiel doesn’t think that’s a good thing.

Sam found them a hunt five hours drive away that sounds like a simple haunting. The car ride is uncomfortable with Dean still refusing to engage in civilized conversation and Sam unsuccessfully trying to lighten the mood with comments that are completely random as far as Castiel can tell. But maybe all their car journeys are like this; how is Castiel supposed to know? If this is a human thing Castiel might have to consider other means of transport, and he entertains himself for most of the ride by thinking up other ways he could travel. Of all the possible things that had made him anxious about being human, anti-social car trips hadn’t even made it onto the list.

By the time they get to the small working farm where the hunt is Castiel’s patience has worn thin; he’s exhausted, not to mention increasingly upset, by Dean’s loud silences intermingled with a supply of unsympathetic comments and he’s not focused enough to deal with anything except a snarky ghost. Luckily, a snarky ghost is what it turns out to be.

Sam starts digging as soon as they find the grave, and even Sam’s attempt to ignore the tension between Dean and Castiel is adding to Castiel’s frustration. Castiel will do what needs to be done without Dean if necessary, because it’s the right thing to do, but he longs for Dean’s support, for the strength Dean can give him. But Dean doesn’t know Castiel is scared, and Castiel can’t tell him.

Dean tosses the second shovel at Castiel. “You want to be a real boy? Dig.” 

If things are no better by tomorrow, Castiel decides, he’ll leave and make his own way for the week. It will be harder but it will be better than spending his final week at loggerheads with Dean. 

Castiel takes the spade, moves to stand alongside Sam and starts to dig, wincing at the slide of the wooden spade handle against the wound in his hand muffled only by the thin bandage. He thrusts the spade into the ground with more force than is necessary and bites his lip when the stitches pull. 

He’s not sure what happens first, the groan he makes which is less about pain and more about sorrow, or Dean grabbing the shovel out of his hands, and replacing it with the salt-filled shotgun.

“Swap,” Dean says, meeting his gaze and laying his hand, palm warm and squeezing in comfort, on the side of Castiel’s neck. “I’m sorry for being a dick,” Dean says. Castiel puts his hand over Dean’s and closes his eyes.

“Cas?” Dean asks, “you okay?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, opening his eyes again. “Thank you.”

“Can you two make up later?” Sam says grumpily, slamming his own shovel deep into the grave. “For now, how about one of you helps me dig.” 

They put the ghost to rest and Castiel tries, but fails, to find some comfort and satisfaction in it. He nurses his hand, picking at the fraying edge of the bandage that now covers not only his hand but has been extended up and over his wrist to cover the binding sigil as well. Dean notices and when he asks him without censure if he wants some codeine Castiel’s resolve is much less convincing this time when he says no.

That night, Castiel dreams a human dream about Lucifer. It’s not the real Lucifer, and in some illogical way the fear that he feels is somehow even more acute than if it had been. He knows how to deal with the real Lucifer. In his dream, Lucifer chases him; asks him what he’s doing over and over again; threatens Dean; threatens Sam; runs after Castiel as he charges through brambles and trees that seem to leap up to meet him, scraping at him and threatening to topple him over. The chase goes on and on and on and Castiel doesn’t know how to end it. He trips over a tree root and just as he’s about to land face first in the loamy earth, he wakes with a start, sweaty, terrified and confused.

“Cas, you okay, man?” Dean mumbles next to him, still half asleep.

They’re in a motel bedroom, in their shared king bed, Dean is next to him, there is no Lucifer, no chase, nothing to be panicked about, nothing to be afraid of except sleep itself. He clears his throat. “Yes, just a dream. Go back to sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

Dean reaches over and twines his forearm around Castiel’s, his half-open eyes reflecting the dim motel room light. He tugs at the neck of Castiel’s tee-shirt and pulls him a little closer. “It was just a dream, right? No nasties?”

“Just a dream, Dean,” he agrees. He uses the bandage on his hand to wipe a dribble of sweat from the tip of his nose.

“Not much fun though, huh?”

“No.”

“We can undo this any time, you know,” Dean slurs sleepily. 

“I know.” Burn the sigil off of his wrist under a short incantation. Five minutes, that’s all it will take. But he knows he won’t do it and Dean doesn’t expect it. Castiel doesn’t go back to sleep that night. He’s becoming increasingly tired, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not his human strength he’ll need when the time comes.

The next day, Castiel extensively researches how to wake yourself up from a dream, and they successfully put down a werewolf. 

Castiel shoots the werewolf in a clean shot right in the center of its forehead as it makes a leap for Sam, who’s standing with his back to it. Dean pats him proudly on the shoulder, “You did good.” Castiel doesn’t mention it was pure reflex, that he’s been feeling more tired than he’s ever felt before and he wasn’t paying attention, that he almost missed it, that Sam had almost been bitten, or worse, killed. He doesn’t need Dean to chastise him for not being fully in the game, he’s perfectly capable of doing that himself.

And he does chastise himself, all day, so that by the evening, Dean knows something’s up, but he doesn’t ask; instead that night as they lie in bed, Dean’s hands smooth over Castiel’s skin, and his fingers massage soothingly against his scalp and he whispers stupid, pointless little things like “This is nice,” and “I’m glad you’re here,” and “You make an awesome human.” Castiel doesn’t know what to do with it, so he does nothing but let Dean make love to him, human to human for the first time. 

Dean takes his time, lets Castiel feel everything for as long as he likes, makes him feel light and uninhibited as Dean ghosts his fingers and his lips over every inch of him; stroking, nibbling, sucking, licking, kissing until Castiel is a gibbering wreck of moans and twitching skin and grabby hands, and when Dean finally takes Castiel in his mouth Castiel comes with a scream that half the motel probably heard, that has Dean pulling off, smug and laughing as he tugs at his own cock and leans in to kiss Castiel on the mouth as he comes.

Everything up to now has been rushed, stolen orgasms and occasional grasped-at moments of tenderness fitted into too-few-and-far-between gaps in their real lives. Castiel’s never known anything else. But this – this is something else; this is not enough and almost too much and it leaves him so very sad that they won’t have more time. He casts a silent prayer to his father, with no real expectation that it will be heard. 

Dean is usually the one who instigates post-sex cuddling, but tonight Castiel shuffles closer without being asked. 

Dean pulls him in close, arms wrapping tight around him. “No bad dreams tonight, okay?” 

He doesn’t sleep for more than a couple of hours, and he doesn’t dream. For a while, he even forgets.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean looks at him in panic when Castiel gets dizzy on the way to the car and has to lean over, hands on his knees and head hung low until it passes, but it’s quickly followed by frustration when he realizes why.

“You haven’t eaten anything in three days?” Dean asks, incredulously.

“Technically, I haven’t eaten anything in a lot longer than that, Dean,” Castiel points out grumpily.

“When you feel hungry, you’re supposed to eat.”

“I haven’t felt hungry.” 

Dean shakes his head in what Castiel decides is less about blame and more about guilt, confirmed when Dean mumbles “How did I not frigging notice?” under his breath, and drives them to an all-you-can-eat breakfast restaurant. Arguing that it’s not Dean’s responsibility to make sure Castiel eats is likely to cause more trouble than it’s worth, so he doesn’t. 

None of them are happy when Castiel finds eating is harder than it looks. According to Sam his stomach has shrunk through lack of use. He picks at his food a little at a time but he’s mostly just moving things around on his plate. Dean gets more and more irritated and eventually throws his hands up, mutters “Just frigging awesome” and disappears to the restrooms at the rear of the restaurant. Castiel watches him go. Dean’s not wrong. Not being able to eat properly is not going to overcome his growing exhaustion.

“So, how’s it going?” Sam asks with genuine interest, and not a little sympathy. “You know, other than this, which yeah, sucks.”

“Being human?” Castiel checks. 

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like it much,” Castiel admits.

“Why not?” Sam asks, “It’s not that bad, you know, when you get used to it?”

“I have no intention of getting used to it,” Castiel says, moving a fry from one side of the plate to the other.

“Is your hand healing?” 

Castiel nods. “Slower than I would like, but yes.”

“Are you sleeping?” 

Castiel nods again. “A little.” He picks up another mouthful of burger meat but looks at it on the end of his fork before putting it down on the side of his plate, untouched. “We’ve been lucky, but I worry that if anything happens to you or to Dean I won’t be able to protect you. I’m so weak like this.”

“Cas, we don’t need you to protect us. I mean it’s cool that you can and we’re grateful, obviously, but we managed without you before we knew angels even existed,” says Sam, “and, you know, it’s you we need, not your mojo. You can still kick some major ass.”

Castiel appreciates the sentiment, however flawed. “You have different enemies now, Sam. It’s difficult to fight my brothers and sisters, and Lucifer himself, with salt and silver bullets.”

“Yeah, well, I think you underestimate what you’re capable of – what we’re all capable of.”

“What’re you capable of?” Dean asks, sliding back into his seat, emotions held in check by a copious amount of water splashed on his head if the droplets hanging off his short fringe are anything to go by.

Castiel looks at Sam and curls the corner of his mouth up into a small smile. “Kicking major ass, apparently.” He turns to look at Dean, and Dean smothers his inherent anxiety under a painfully stilted laugh. 

The next eight hours are spent in Castiel’s least favorite occupation – riding in the back of the car. Up until now, the roads have been long and straight, but they’ve spent most of today travelling through hilly countryside and the roads twist around the contours. Castiel spent the first half of the trip slowly eating bits of snack food given to him by Sam, but he sorely wishes he hadn’t. By the time they stop, he’s ready to throw up what little food he’s eaten, and if he held any affection at all for his humanity it got left behind miles ago.

He looks with distaste at the stifling discomfort of the restaurant across the road that Dean and Sam are eyeing up.

“I’m going to stay out here – get some fresh air,” he says, looking around and spotting the river behind him with its tree-planted walkway and wooden bench seats. “I’ll wait over there.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dean says. “Sam can bring us something to eat.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, really,” he says, “I’m not going to be good company for a while anyway. Bring me something when you’re done.”

“You do look a little green round the gills,” Dean says, seeming to find it amusing. “Okay, if you’re sure. C’mon Sam, I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving, Dean.”

Castiel watches them go and listens to their playful banter fade away with distance before turning to find a seat to wait on. 

Recent rainstorms have filled the river and the water moves like a solid thing, its surface eddying and hinting at powerful forces in its depths. It’s strangely relaxing to sit on the edge of all that directed energy, not part of it but just watching. 

He starts to doze off, hypnotized into lassitude by the river, so that the angel appearing in front of him completely startles him. How did he allow himself to let his guard down so completely? He moves quickly, reaching into his coat for his blade but he’s too slow. His sister is behind him before he gets a chance to pull it out from its sheath, her own blade against his neck.

“Then it’s true?” she hisses. 

She’s so angry that she’s trembling with it; her blade twitching in her hand so much that she nicks Castiel’s skin and draws blood that trickles warmly down Castiel’s neck and under his collar. He tenses, clenching his jaw and squeezing his hands into fists, forcing himself to stay still against the sharp point of the sword. 

“I’d heard a rumor you were like this… helpless; useless. Pathetic.” Keeping the point of her blade against Castiel’s throat, the angel walks around in front of him. She smiles. “I thought I’d take a look. Thought you couldn’t be hard to find like this.” She stares at him, tilting her head in a sneer. “The only question is, do I kill you here or do I take you with me to face justice?”

“You’ll have to kill me. I won’t go with you,” Castiel says, his voice a low, defiant growl. 

“That can be arranged,” she says.

“Is there a problem here?” Dean’s rough, angry voice calls from a little distance to Castiel’s right, and Castiel jumps in alarm. Dean and Sam have only been gone for ten minutes, not enough time to finish their meals. They must have seen the encounter from the restaurant. They shouldn’t be here. 

Castiel swivels his head towards them, stops when he feels the blood flowing more freely as the angel’s sword cuts deeper. “Dean, leave – ” 

“You okay, Cas?” Dean interrupts him.

The angel turns to the newcomers. “Dean Winchester, and Sam too. I’m honored to meet you at last, but this need be no concern of yours. I suggest you do as Castiel says, and leave.” 

“Not going to happen,” Dean says coming closer, his hands bunched in fists at his side, his face hard lines of anger. “He’s with us.”

“I don’t really see what you think you can do,” she scoffs.

Her blade has moved an inch away from Castiel while she talks, and she’s no longer looking at him, but at Dean and Sam. It’s enough of a chance, quite possibly the only one he’ll get. In one swift movement, Castiel launches himself upwards, throwing his shoulder into his sister’s diaphragm. It catches her off guard but only for a moment and she quickly disappears only to reappear far enough away to slash at Castiel with her blade. He leans back and the blade only scratches his arm. Ducking low and rushing forward again, he barrels into her. He hears Sam and Dean both yell his name urgently in chorus as he wraps his arms around his sister and sends both of them plunging towards the freezing river. She disappears in a gust at the very last moment, too late for Castiel to stop his headlong tumble into the water.

He hears Dean’s despairing shout of ‘Cas’ in the second before he goes under. 

Even with his eyes open he can see nothing in the churning water and he reaches out to feel for something solid that will tell him which way is up, which way to kick out and strike for the surface. The current is strong and the water is very cold, sweeping him downwards, clinging round his body with irresistible force. 

His chest begins to ache with the lack of air. There are rocks everywhere, and he tumbles and scrapes along them at the bottom of the river. He reaches out and tries to grab one of the larger boulders that breach the surface so he can climb his way back up; he can only hope that they aren’t too slippery smooth to hold on to. 

There’s a sudden tug and then another, stronger and getting stronger still. Not some miraculous rescue, but the water gripping tighter, sucking him fast, inexorably towards a narrower part of the river. The sheer overwhelming weight and power of if makes a mockery of human strength. Castiel’s shoulder crashes into rock and he’s spun and crashes again and he can’t get hold of any surface with either hand. 

The tumbling and crashing goes on and on and the pain in his chest gets deeper and he knows he isn’t going to be climbing up any rocks.

The crashing stops, but the river is still pulling him along under the surface. His ears are roaring and there’s pain like a sword in his chest. Then the pull of the water relaxes. He’s seconds this side of blacking out. He kicks to the surface, a feeble effort but he shoots upwards towards the light. He breaches the surface, and pulls in a lungful of air. He hears a yell from the shore, then another. He doesn’t have the energy to keep himself afloat, and his clothes are heavy with water. His vision blurs as he feels the river picking up speed again, rushing ever onwards, pulling him under. He’s too weak to fight it. He closes his eyes and sinks. 

~~xxx~~

Castiel comes to in a hospital. It literally takes his breath away as he becomes suddenly aware of his torn, battered and crushed body. There’s no grace he can call on to deaden any of the pain. He keeps his eyes squeezed tightly closed and clamps his mouth shut. His back, his chest and his right hip all feel like the muscle and bone have been pounded to pulp and his right side, from his ankle to his temple, burns as if it’s on fire. It takes him a few minutes to remember what happened. Gradually it comes back, and he distinctly remembers drowning, but he’s obviously not dead. It might be preferable. He doesn’t mean to make any noise, but the groan escapes regardless.

“Hey. How’re you doing?” 

Castiel flickers his eyes open reluctantly at the sound of Dean’s voice.

“Dean.” His voice comes out hoarse, rougher than usual. 

Dean reaches out and he wraps a hand around Castiel’s left forearm. “This is the only bit of you that doesn’t look like a train hit it,” Dean comments. “How much do you remember?”

“Everything except how I’m actually alive,” Castiel croaks. He swallows uncomfortably.

Dean lets go of his arm and reappears with a paper cup. He lifts Castiel’s head up so that Castiel can take sips of water.

“Two fishermen down river pulled you out. They gave you CPR.” Dean starts to explain as he lowers Castiel back down into the pillow. “You were dead, Cas.” Dean adds as if it’s an accusation.

“Sorry.”

Dean strokes his hand down the bare skin of Castiel’s arm and folds his fingers around Castiel’s. 

“What happened? How did she find you?” 

“At the moment, anyone could find me if they know to look and they try hard enough.”

“So how did she know to look?”

“Not surprisingly, she didn’t say,” Castiel says. His tone is more irritated than he’d intended. He looks at Dean in silent apology, closes his eyes to try and get rid of the disembodied feeling in his head before elaborating. “She said she’d heard a rumor, and if she knows, others will know.”

“Why aren’t you more worried?” Dean asks, waving his free arm around.

“What would be the point?” he opens his eyes again, forcing himself to focus on Dean.

“It would make me feel better if you worried a little more about yourself so I didn’t have to do all the worrying here.”

“Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Dean says, stroking his thumb absently up and down the back of Castiel’s hand. 

Castiel tracks the movement, lowers his eyes, slowly registers the narrow tube ending in a needle in the back of his hand, and panics. Snatching his hand away from Dean, he tries to sit up and he makes a grab for the tube. Dean’s caught by surprise at first, but after his initial shock, he grapples with Castiel, clutching for purchase on Castiel’s arms and holding Castiel down on the bed. 

“What the fuck?”

“I don’t want drugs,” Castiel says, trying to break out of Dean’s grip but finding that Dean’s a lot stronger than he is. 

“Calm down, Goddamnit. It’s only saline.” Dean looks embarrassed when Castiel focuses intensely on his face. “They wanted to give you morphine but I wouldn’t let them.”

“You wouldn’t let them?” 

“It’s my job to look out for you,” Dean says.

“It’s not your job. I can look out for myself,” he says.

Dean scoffs, “Yeah, you’re real good at that. But this is how it works between… “ Dean looks embarrassed and waves a hand that encompasses them both as if it’s self-explanatory, “… between us. We look out for each other.” Dean wipes a hand down his face, peering at Castiel over his fingers. “Will you turn your mojo back on?”

“No,” Castiel says, wearily. He shuts his eyes and the world briefly stops swimming. It would be so good to go to sleep again, perhaps in a minute Dean will let him go to sleep again. “We’re nearly there,” he says. “All of this will have been for nothing if we just give in now.”

“You died.”

He knows Dean’s worried. He understands, but even so, he has no choice. He’s never had a choice. He forces his eyes open. It’s harder than he expected. “I’m not stopping now.”

“Cas, you’re awake.” Sam’s timing is unusually perfect. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Sam. Thank you.” Castiel gives a last glance at Dean. Dean’s face is stony, but then it softens into resignation.

“He’s not fine,” Dean says sighing as he stands up. “Sam, what’ve you got?”

“Old abandoned farmhouse about ten miles out of town,” Sam says, walking in to the room. “There’s a roof over half of it, and walls and doors. It’s dry, out of the way, no neighbors.”

“Sounds good,” says Dean. “You gonna get it ready? Cas says he’s easy to find now and they’ll be looking. You better ward it against every evil and angelic son-of-a-bitch you can think of.”

Sam nods. Dean turns to Castiel.

“This hospital room has some wards and hex bags under the mattress and what-not, and the hospital wants to keep you in for a couple of days anyway. You and me are going to stay here tonight. Sam’s going to set up at the farmhouse he’s found. We go there tomorrow.”

“Then what?” Castiel asks, closing his eyes. Dean and Sam’s voices start to fade. 

“Then we hide - until you’re fully charged up.”

“It could be days,” Castiel objects, though his heart isn’t in it. Nor is his body; he shifts on the bed, and the nerves from his toenails to the very ends of his hair object.

Dean’s still talking. Castiel can hear the words but he can’t make sense of them. “I don’t care. It’s too dangerous. Even more so now than it was before.”

“Cas, you okay?” Sam asks suddenly. Sam’s voice sounds surreal, as if it’s in a tunnel.

“m’ kay,” Cas mumbles and wonders why he can’t form the words he needs.

Dean’s voice cuts in and out, anxious. “He… sleep. Sam… tomorrow. Cas?”

He tries to answer. He really does.

~~xxx~~

“Cas. Cas, wake up.” Dean’s voice is in his ear. Hissing, insistent. He wants to sleep; he squeezes his eyes tighter shut.

“Cas?” Dean’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. Must be important.

Must be important. Castiel’s eyes struggle open. “What? What is it?” he mumbles, still half-asleep.

“We have to go now. Can you get up?”

“Of course,” he says, already starting to move. Dean’s hand grabs his elbow and helps pull him up and Castiel takes a deep, sharp breath.

“You okay?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he replies, his voice no more than a croak forced out through a throat that feels like sandpaper. He tries to work some saliva into his mouth. “What’s happening?”

“Demons,” Dean says, “next floor down. Working their way up.”

“Clothes?”

“Here, we need to hurry,” Dean shoves an armful of clothes at Castiel. “I called Sam. He can be here in ten minutes.” Dean goes to the door and peers out along the corridor, both ways. Castiel fumbles the clothes. Strips off the hospital gown fairly easily. Gives up on the tee-shirt, gets the button-up around his shoulders, left arm in. Can’t get any further with his jeans than one foot in one leg. 

Dean turns back to him. “No sign yet… what are you doing? Shit. Come here. Let me help.”

Castiel vaguely dressed, they cross to the door, Castiel leaning heavily on Dean. The clothes rub against the raw skin on his right side in the places where there aren’t any dressings, and he tries unsuccessfully to lean away from the friction. Dean supports him with an arm around his waist. Dean looks one way down the corridor outside the room, then the other. 

“It’s all clear,” he whispers, and pulls Castiel along with him to the right. Dean keeps checking over his shoulder, looking behind them, and Castiel pulls away from Dean’s grip and all the painful pulls and pushes as Dean twists and turns as he hurries.

“Cas?”

“I can manage. Let’s go.”

Dean nods and keeps moving, Castiel stumbling along after him. It’s faster this way, and they reach the emergency exit. Dean opens the door and ushers Castiel in front of him. Castiel gets one step into the stairwell before he hears footsteps below him. He pushes Dean back out. “They’re coming,” he hisses and Dean nods, grabs Castiel’s hand and they make their way further along the corridor. It’s the middle of the night, quiet and still. Castiel can hear mumbled voices from the left, and he glances down the side-corridor to the nurse’s station fifty meters away. Dean tugs him along, trying to speed him up. Castiel feels his legs weakening, his strength ebbing. Dean must realize because his arm is back around Castiel an instant later. There’s a noise from the corridor up ahead where it does a dog leg by a window, and Dean and Castiel’s heads both whip that way simultaneously. It’s Sam, skidding on the smooth floor as he turns the corner. He closes in on them fast, takes Castiel’s other side, and with Dean and Sam both flanking him, Castiel’s legs finally buckle. His vision blurs, his focus fades out. 

“Dean, I… ‘

“Crap, Cas, hang on. We’re nearly out.”

He nods and the world spins briefly before it disappears altogether.


	8. Chapter 8

He wakes up as he’s being manhandled out of the back of the Impala by Sam and Dean.

“Cas – you back with us?” Dean asks, his voice raw and ragged.

“Yes,” he manages, reaching his left hand out for someone to take. Dean does. He groans and curses loudly in Enochian as they heave him out of the car. “What happened?”

“We’re at the farmhouse,” Dean says. “Are you okay? ‘Cause we can find another hospital.” Dean’s gaze is penetratingly intense.

“I’ll be fine. No more hospitals.”

“Okay, good,” Dean says. He gets a better grip on Castiel’s arm and Castiel tries not to flinch.

The abandoned farmhouse is surprisingly comfortable for an abandoned farmhouse. The part that Sam has set up for them has a roof, many candles, one portable gas light. An open fire burns in an old fire grate and the old chimney isn’t letting too much smoke escape into the room. Two bedrolls and sleeping bags lay against the far wall, and a third lies against the opposite wall; bottles of water and a couple of grocery bags filled with snack foods sit on a shelf near the door.

Castiel walks around slowly and checks all the wards, tightening one or two. He can feel Dean’s eyes follow him all the while, protective; Castiel wants to object, but he doesn’t because he’s starting to understand how alike he and Dean are.

Finally satisfied, he sinks down exhausted onto one of the two bed rolls lying together. He doesn’t think he’s being presumptuous. He arranges himself onto his left side - the least bruised part of him - and he watches Sam flicking through the pages of a book, and he watches Dean pretending to read a magazine. Cas, his future self, hadn’t cared that the sigils he’d designed weren’t meant to be survived. Castiel does care, or at least he thinks he does, but he’d had no idea what that really meant until now. The last week has opened his eyes to possibilities, and a future he’d never even considered. Tomorrow he’ll look at the sigils again. There might be a loophole somewhere. 

But for now, all he wants to do is sleep. He drops his head down against the brand new pillow Sam thought to buy, closes his eyes and falls asleep with his head nestled in soft downy feathers and hopes he doesn’t dream of flying. 

~~xxx~~

“Castiel,” Lucifer says calmly from his armchair. 

Castiel looks around him anxiously, instinctively scoping out a direction to run in, but this isn’t a dream like the last one. The landscape around him isn’t dark and frightening, but an endless meadow of grasses and wildflowers billowing in a gentle breeze. It’s one of his warmest memories. He looks down and he’s in his suit and trenchcoat, an outfit he hasn’t seen since the river.

Lucifer sits and waits for the seconds it takes Castiel to make sense of it, and to realize that there is nowhere to run.

“Where’s my cup?” Lucifer asks as soon as Castiel turns back to face him.

“I wasn’t able to retrieve it. It was lost.”

Lucifer stands up and walks around him. Castiel turns to follow him. 

“I believe that you don’t have it,” Lucifer says after a moment, studying Castiel’s face attentively. “And actually I’m much more interested in what you do have.”

Castiel frowns at him and tries not to look away. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do, Castiel. You’re not stupid. Not by a long shot. Too clever for your own good some might say. So what are you up to, eh?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Castiel.” Lucifer goes back to the chair, sits down and crosses his legs. “At first, I dismissed the rumors of your humanity as so much wishful thinking. But I can’t really dismiss them now. Not with all the incessant chatter going on, not to mention the bets over who gets to you first. There’s quite a price on your head and I hear you’re only still with us by the skin of your teeth.”

Lucifer pauses as if he expects a response. When he gets none, he continues. “I don’t believe in coincidences Castiel. You brought something back with you from 2014. You didn’t come back human and I’d have heard if you fell, so what are you planning?”

“Nothing,” Castiel repeats. He wipes one hand nervously down his coat, hating himself for being afraid; it’s just a dream.

Lucifer snorts in amusement, “See, terrible liar.” Lucifer looks at his fingernails and teases a speck of dirt out of one corner before looking back up at Castiel. “I will find you. Whatever you’re planning doesn’t have a chance. You’ll never defeat me.”

To hell with this. Castiel tilts his head, stands up straight and challenges Lucifer. “Then you shouldn’t be worried. Let us do what we will. Isn’t this beneath you? Dream-walking of all things?”

“Watch your tone, little brother,” Lucifer scowls.

“Or else what? There’s very little you can do that you haven’t already threatened to do. I will stop you. You won’t get Sam Winchester, and you won’t take Dean Winchester back to Hell.” Castiel leans forward onto the balls of his feet, wrathful. “And this is my dream. And I know a few things about dreaming and it doesn’t matter how you got in here – in my dream, I get to do this.” He clicks his fingers, makes himself blink, forces a sound out of his throat, puts all of his research about waking up from lucid dreams to use in one go and prays that they work. He catches one last glimpse of Lucifer’s unhappy, twisted features, and then he jerks awake, still yelling, opening his eyes to find Dean and Sam both leaning over him looking terrified.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asks. 

Castiel heaves in deep, ragged breaths. “A dream,” he says, gasping, wide-eyed, his heart thumping so hard in his chest that the blood is pounding in his temples. He presses the heel of his hand up to his forehead. “Just a dream.”

~~xxx~~

The next day Castiel reviews the sigils, trying out new designs and becoming increasingly frustrated at his failure to get around the finality of the outcome. Sam left early in a search for a power supply for his laptop; Sam’s the one keeping an eye on the news and the hunter network for anything they need to worry about. Dean seems too restless to read and instead has a small knife out and is whittling a shape into a hand-sized piece of wood. Castiel thinks it’s going to be a bird but it’s too early to say.

“You don’t have to stay with me, Dean. I’m not going anywhere,” Castiel says when the sun’s high overhead and the afternoon seems to stretch too long in front of them. “The wards are strong. It’s safer here than it is anywhere else.”

Dean looks up. “Right now, I don’t have anywhere else I want to be,” he says. He puts down the piece of wood and comes to sit on the bedroll, shoulder to shoulder with Castiel.

“What’s the chance of this not working?” Dean asks.

“I honestly don’t know,” Castiel says. “There are too many factors to work it out. But I think we have a better chance that it will work than it won’t.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

“Then you’re no worse off than you were before. Lucifer still walks the Earth and he still does it without Sam.”

“Why do you do that?” Dean asks, suddenly turning towards Castiel and peering at him with a single-minded intensity.

“Do what?” Castiel asks, puzzled.

“Whenever I ask about ‘after’, you never say ‘we’, you always say ‘you’.”

Castiel casts his eyes down to the pile of papers by his side. The sigils mock him. He wants to tell Dean, wants to be honest, but Dean might talk him out of what needs to be done, and considering the way he feels at the moment that would be easy for Dean to do. But that can’t happen. This is the only way; it’s what he believes, it’s what he knows. “I don’t mean anything by it,” he says. “It’s just a manner of speech.”

Dean grunts and turns back against the wall. He stares at a spot on the ceiling. “Cas, within a week, I’ve nearly lost you twice. I just want to know if this is dangerous for you. I get why you might think not telling me is a good idea, but I know when you’re lying. You’re a terrible liar.”

Castiel huffs a laugh. “You’re not the first person to tell me that recently,” he says, tiredly amused.

“Yeah? You been doing a lot of lying recently?”

Castiel drops his head back beside Dean’s. “I saw Lucifer.”

“What the hell, Cas? Where? You didn’t think to – ”

Castiel drops his hand to cover Dean’s where it’s nervously fidgeting. “Last night. He was dream walking and he won’t be doing it again.”

“What did he want?” Dean asks unhappily.

“He wanted to know what we’re doing. He knows we’re planning something.”

“And you didn’t think it was worth telling me this why exactly?”

“What difference would it have made?” Castiel asks, circling his hand to meet Dean’s palm to palm and sliding their fingers together. He stares at their hands as they slot easily and unselfconsciously together and briefly wonders, with a ridiculous surge of jealousy, who Dean will do this with when he’s gone. He shakes away the selfish thought, leans across and draws Dean into a kiss. 

Dean’s easily side-tracked, leaning over and bringing his hand up to Castiel’s shoulder, then sliding his palm behind Castiel’s neck to pull him closer, and Castiel leans into it willingly, direly in need of the contact, and the comfort it offers. He opens his mouth a fraction to slide the wet inside of his lips along Dean’s jaw and cheek and back to Dean’s mouth, where he slips his tongue between Dean’s teeth, pushes against Dean’s own tongue, twirls and circles and tries to tie it in knots. 

Dean breaks away first, leaning back short of breath. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject.” Dean kisses Castiel again. “You sure you’re up to this?”

“I’m up to kissing, Dean,” Castiel teases.

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, like we ever stop at the kissing bit.”

“I’m sure if you’re gentle with me I’ll be fine,” Castiel says, pushing the heel of his hand against Dean’s crotch.

Dean leans his head back, and Castiel drops open-mouthed kisses to Dean’s neck. “Gentle my ass,” Dean growls.

Even so, Dean is gentle, swinging a leg over Castiel’s thighs, putting his weight on his own heels as he opens Castiel’s pants. Castiel’s practiced fingers pop the button on Dean’s jeans, slide the zipper down and he reaches inside Dean’s boxers to wrap long fingers firmly around smooth skin at the same time that Dean reaches past the waistband of Castiel’s briefs to circle the head of Castiel’s cock with forefinger and thumb. 

Castiel leans his head back as Dean undoes the top two buttons of his shirt, sliding his hand in, and Castiel pushes up into the light brush of Dean’s callused palm as it eases its way across Castiel’s collar bone and shoulder, carefully feeling its way around the bruises and grazes.

Sam’s not going to be back for a while so they take it slowly, and Castiel could get used to this, might even demand it if circumstances were different, if they had time. 

He lets his hands roam over Dean’s skin as Dean did to him only a couple of nights ago, assuming, rightly it seems from Dean’s reaction, that Dean was doing to Castiel what Dean himself enjoyed. He touches Dean often and lightly and everywhere he can reach, occasionally drawing blunt fingernails along over-sensitized flesh that has Dean hissing sharp breaths against his neck. Dean’s touches are more controlled, paying attention to where and how hard he can touch, but just as attentive for all that. As they get closer to their climax, they lean into each other, Dean’s forehead falling against Castiel’s; Castiel’s arm wraps around Dean’s back, pulling him closer, they gasp against each others’ lips. 

Castiel’s slower to reach his orgasm but Dean waits for him, changing pace and keeping them moving together. When they come, Castiel drops his head onto Dean’s shoulder. “I love you,” he says, because he wants Dean to hear it at least once before the showdown with Lucifer. He worries it might be too much but Dean doesn’t call him on it, like he expects. Just whispers back, into Castiel’s ear, “Me too… I love you too, Cas.”

~~xxx~~

Sam comes back after dark, full of enthusiasm. 

“Guys, we’ve got a lead,” Sam says, putting the laptop down to one side and taking three long strides to where Dean and Castiel sit on the floor, Dean dabbing antiseptic cream over the parts of Castiel’s back that he can’t reach. Sam crouches down by Castiel’s feet. “Crowley knows where Lucifer’s going to be in three days’ time.”

Dean’s head snaps up. “Crowley? Is that really a good idea, Sam? Can we trust him after Carthage?”

“He’s a demon so it goes without saying we can’t trust him, but the colt not working wasn’t really his fault and he’s the only inside man we’ve got.” Sam looks from Dean to Castiel. “He already knew about Cas being human too, though he doesn’t know why Cas is human and he was desperate for Bobby to tell him.”

“Bobby didn’t though, did he?” Dean asks in alarm.

Sam grins, “Of course not.”

“I’d have been very surprised if he didn’t know,” Castiel says, unconcerned. “Everyone else seems to.”

“Lucifer dream-walked him last night,” Dean elaborates for Sam’s benefit. He turns to Castiel. “Cas, we talked about this. It’s healthy to worry.” Dean turns back to Sam. “Where’s Lucifer going to be?”

“An abandoned homestead just north of Steamboat Springs. It’s only about a four hour drive from here.”

“Is three days enough time, Cas?” Dean asks.

No. Three days is nowhere near enough time. He looks across at Dean and he wants to scream at the cruelty of fate. 

“Yes,” he says.

“Then three days it is,” Dean says, sounding pleased, and the resulting ache in Castiel’s chest has nothing to do with any of his physical injuries. 

~~xxx~~

The next day, Sam leaves to go and meet up with one of Bobby’s hunters and lend a hand on a hunt half a day’s drive away, and Dean goes into town to do laundry. (“We should have got you your own clothes – three men sharing two dudes’ clothes? I don’t know when that seemed like a good idea”). 

Castiel doesn’t usually mind being on his own, but right now he wants to be with Dean, every minute of every day he has left, even if it means doing something as mundane as laundry. He can’t of course, and he didn’t even suggest it, knowing already how that conversation would have gone. 

Instead, he’s stuck in the farmhouse and he’s been looking at the sigils every which way he can think of until he’s gone cross-eyed. He needs a break. He doesn’t have access to any outside stimuli or news – no angel chatter, no television and no internet – he’s bored, which like tiresome car journeys isn’t something he expected, and he hasn’t planned for it. 

He picks up his gun and hefts it from one hand to the other. Sam taught him how to clean it and look after it, but he hasn’t used it in anger since the werewolf and it’s been cleaned numerous times since. A bit of target practice won’t hurt. He’s not that good. It doesn’t really matter whether he’s good or not he supposes, if he can’t change the sigils, but it’s something to do.

There are protection wards around the back wall of the farmhouse that give him twenty meters of supernaturally invisible space, give or take, so Castiel takes the gun out into the sun and the fresh air and immediately he feels better. He wishes he’d done it sooner. He marks some targets on the wall with some charcoal, steps away from the wall, turns, walks out twenty paces, then turns back towards the wall, and shoots. He has to make adjustments to his stance to allow for the worst of the injuries to his back, but despite that he does well – even though he says so himself – and hits the targets dead center with four of the six shots. He walks back to the wall and marks some new targets, smaller and in clusters. 

He steps away from the wall, turns and stops dead. 

He lifts his gun, the grip held tightly in both hands, his aim steady, his face determined.

“I don’t think that peashooter is going to do anything to me,” Crowley says, walking forward, placing his hand over the muzzle of the gun and pushing it down. Castiel begrudgingly lets him. 

“It’s true then?” Crowley asks, looking Castiel up and down. “You’re human?”

“Not exactly,” Castiel says. 

“Close enough,” Crowley says with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Let’s not get tied down with semantics.”

“What do you want, Crowley?”

“What do you think I want, Castiel? I want to know what you’re planning and those muppets won’t tell me. For some reason they don’t trust me.”

“I wonder why?”

“So, come on, Cas. Spill.”

“We have a plan to re-cage Lucifer and that is all you need to know.”

“I already know that much.” Crowley says, stepping forward so that he’s peering up at Castiel from mere inches away. “You do know that everyone, but everyone, is looking for you? You shouldn’t be out here. You’re like a bloody flare – ‘oh, here I am. Come and find me and kill me, please’”

“I was under the impression that it was protected from the sight of the likes of you.”

“Unfortunately, whoever did these missed a couple of doodles. There’s a back door.” Crowley takes a step back. “It’s in my best interests for whatever half-baked plan you’ve got to work. Carthage was a disaster.”

“It was. We lost two friends.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your friends. But I do give a fuck that Lucifer is still walking around free as a dicky bird. Now for some reason, I don’t trust you three stooges to get it right.” Crowley reaches a hand out faster than Castiel can react, grabs the neck of Castiel’s tee-shirt in a meaty fist and rips down. “See, this,” Crowley spits out and prods at the scabs and the blackening bruises he’s exposed on Castiel’s shoulder. “This is what I mean. You’re too weak, too vulnerable like this. Will you even survive until Steamboat Springs?” 

Castiel reaches out, and clasping Crowley’s wrist, wrenches his hand away.

They stand off against each other for a moment, Crowley seething with unconcealed anger, Castiel wary and stubborn. Then Crowley straightens himself out, flattens his palms against the lapels of his jacket, smoothing himself down even though there isn’t a wrinkle or crease in sight, and provides a humorless smile. “I’m prepared to offer the services of my personal team as protection.”

~~xxx~~

“Crowley?” growls Dean, aghast. “What the hell did he want? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine – ”

“And what the fuck were you even doing outside anyway?”

“I was – ”

“Jesus, Cas? Crowley? We’ll have all the hordes of Hell and the Heavenly host here next. What’d you do? – send them an invitation?”

“Dean, shut up,” Castiel insists, walking forward and placing both hands on Dean’s shoulders. Dean tugs unhappily at the torn cloth of Castiel’s tee-shirt. Sam’s, really. 

“Okay,” he says, lifting his head from the tee-shirt and meeting Castiel’s eyes, “I’m officially shutting up. Talk to me.”

Much as Castiel hates to admit it, Crowley’s offer makes some sense and his reasons for wanting to help make sense too, even if they’re entirely self-serving. Crowley’s ‘back door’ has been closed and locked but they have a few hours in the car before they can reach Steamboat Springs. And however much they hex and ward the Impala, they can’t hide from plain old-fashioned sight, and the number of eyes watching out for them puts the chance of them being seen at high to inevitable. Crowley’s offering to run interference, and to provide distractions. He has a small team loyal to him, not Lucifer. It might not be enough but it’s better than taking their chances with just the three of them and not a supernatural power between them.

Sam comes back as they’re discussing it, but by that time, Dean’s convinced, as is Castiel so it doesn’t take much to get Sam on board too. And, in any case, as Sam points out, Crowley knows where they are now and is probably watching the house. It’s not as if they’re going anywhere if they don’t go along with him.


	9. Chapter 9

They don’t see Crowley – or anyone else for that matter – when they leave the farmhouse. In fact, they haven’t heard anything from him since an arrogant “Of course, what choice did you have,” when Bobby passed on their acceptance of Crowley’s offer. They have to work on the assumption that he’s there somewhere. 

That’s not to say they’ve dropped all their other precautions. They’ve got hex bags falling out of their pockets, packed in the trunk, in the glove box and under the seat. There are wards on the roof and the trunk. The most dangerous time is Castiel’s walk from the farmhouse to the car, but even so he takes a moment to check the magic attempting to hide the car.

“We good?” Dean asks, impatiently.

“Not really,” Castiel says. He smoothes a hand over the Impala’s roof. “There isn’t enough space on this car to provide the necessary protection. Anyone determined to find us will find us.”

“Could you at least be vaguely optimistic?”

“I can lie if you want me to.” Castiel opens the rear door and turns to climb in. There’s a spark in the air a few meters away, there and then gone again; Castiel narrows his eyes to focus better, but there’s nothing to see now. All he saw was an angel flicker briefly in, before something pulled it away. Crowley keeping his promise, no doubt. Castiel doesn’t mention it. 

The trip seems longer than it actually is. Castiel alternates between shuffling the sigil designs and looking at Dean’s eyes reflected back at him in the driver’s mirror. The sigils are the originals he brought back from 2014. Cas really did do a good job and despite working on them for days, Castiel hasn’t been able to find a way to improve their efficacy or reduce their risk to him personally. He has mere hours left, but now he just wants it to be over. There’s nothing else he can say to Dean, there’s no more time for them. He thinks if it isn’t over soon he might lose his nerve, or even now tell Dean what’s likely to happen to him and let Dean talk him out of it. 

When they turn up at Steamboat Springs, Crowley is waiting for them, picking bits of non-existent lint off his jacket.

“Boys.”

“Crowley.” Dean looks around the otherwise empty lay-by. “Did we have any trouble?”

“Nothing my associates and I couldn’t handle.” Crowley jerks his head, indicating over his shoulder and behind him. “Lucifer’s that way. Are you ready?”

Dean turns to Castiel. Tension thrums through him. Castiel can detect it even without his grace. “Cas?”

Castiel nods and pulls out a lighter. He rolls up one sleeve to expose the binding sigil on his wrist. His hand still has a small bandage on it and he stares at it for a moment. It was only a week ago – how can time both drag out and be so short. He’s not ready for this. He doesn’t want to do this.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dean says. Does it show in his face? His fear.

“Yes, I do.” He holds Dean’s look and says much more quietly, intimately. “It doesn’t mean I want to.”

“Oh, please.” Crowley rolls his eyes. “Can we get on with it? You two can do the eye thing after we’ve sent Lucifer home.”

Castiel turns to look briefly at Crowley, then drops his eyes, flicks on the lighter and holds it over the binding sigil. He grits his teeth as his skin blisters, starts the incantation, clearly enunciating the Enochian, then with a rush his grace comes flooding in, filling his core, seeping into every crack of his being. He didn’t realize how much power he still had at his disposal until he’d been without it. It tingles inside him, ready and available.

“So now we’re all back,” Crowley says, with a hint of irritation, “Is someone going to fill me in on the fucking plan.”

Castiel doesn’t answer directly, just takes his jacket and shirt off. The sigils are marked over his skin from his elbows up and around his arms, over his chest down as far as his navel and up almost to his collarbone. Painted on in a mixture of blood, grave dirt, and the ash of a Cyprus, they’re a dark brown medley of interconnecting circles, lines and symbols. Castiel and Sam had taken their time over them this morning making sure they were right, leaving nothing to chance. Dean had watched, unnaturally quiet.

Crowley leans in close. “Oh, that’s good.” He pokes at Castiel’s belly. “I especially like this one.” He grins. “You know this might just work.” He flicks a thumb towards Dean and Sam. “They do know what this will do to you, right Castiel?”

“Be quiet,” Castiel says, glaring at Crowley.

Crowley just chuckles in the face of the plainly obvious truth written all over Castiel’s face. 

“Well,” Crowley says, clapping Castiel hard on the back, “let’s get this show on the road.”

“Yes, it’s time.” Time for the end of sentimentality, time to do what has to be done. Castiel turns and walks across the small paddock that separates the road from the river. He doesn’t look behind him but he knows that Sam and Dean are following.

Behind a set of bushes, in the center of a small stone circle, Lucifer kneels, a slaughtered goat lying to one side, blood coating his hands, surrounded by half a dozen demons all watching a glowing blue orb that hovers over one of the stones. 

The demons start towards them but Lucifer holds a hand up to stay them. 

Castiel starts chanting under his breath, his fingers tracing a pattern through the sigils painted on his body.

“It won’t work, Castiel,” Lucifer says without turning around to look at them. “I could have stopped you a hundred times over on your way here if I thought it would.” 

Castiel keeps chanting. He draws a small cut across one finger tip with a blade and drags the finger over the outline of a symbol on his bicep.

“You don’t have the power to make it work. Don’t get me wrong, they’re good sigils – powerful magic right there – but in your hands? You’re weak. You’re barely an angel at all.”

Castiel speeds up the chant, changing the tone. The sigils start to glow and the fingers of his hands start arcing small electrical bolts between them. The ground starts to rumble and Lucifer stands up and turns towards him.

“That is actually further than I thought you’d get. I’m impressed.” The ground shakes violently around Lucifer and Lucifer sways. “Less amused now, Castiel.”

Castiel spreads his arms wide and electricity casts webs between his arms and the sides of his torso. The ground behind Lucifer splits open and a great sucking wind pulls every demon that was with him into the hole before they’ve even had time to look surprised.

Castiel drops to one knee. This is taking too long and Lucifer is probably right. He’s draining himself and Lucifer is still here. He’s not powerful enough – he’s too weak. He clasps both hands in front of him and squeezes as if he can force the waning energy out of him.

“I will kill you, you little shit,” Lucifer says, trying to step forward but failing.

Castiel closes his eyes, drops his other knee, lowers his head and collects the power that flowed into the furthest corners of him, surging it onwards through his skin, concentrating it into the open gate.

Lucifer falls back and towards the vortex but that’s as far as he goes. The pull of the gate isn’t strong enough to haul Lucifer back in.

Crowley comes up beside Castiel, his face both seething with anger and terrified all at once. He grips Castiel’s bicep hard. “How much more?” Crowley yells over the noise of the gate.

“Not much, but I can’t… I don’t have it.”

“I know. This had better bloody work, angel.” Crowley turns to Lucifer and lifts a hand, palm out.

Lucifer laughs. “I never trusted you, Crowley. You’ve just reserved your place on the rack for eternity.”

“Not if I’m in charge.”

Crowley squeezes his eyes tightly shut and concentrates. Castiel can feel the extra energy channeling towards the cage. It gives him renewed motivation, allows him to delve deep inside to take what he can from every little corner and crevice, and to push everything he has into the vortex. Lucifer is being pulled backwards in to the hole; Lucifer reaches out a hand and yells and screams; his face morphs into his true form, hideous and twisted. With one final screech, he’s pulled into hell. Castiel and Crowley let go, and the gate slams shut. 

It’s anti-climactic. Everything goes quiet and it’s as if nothing had ever happened. The grass is smooth and undisturbed; the traffic noise from the trucks using the nearby road is a muffled, normal sound in the background. But there are no birds, and two boys, a wasted angel and the new king of Hell stare in silence at each other, not knowing what to say.

Castiel wobbles sideways, his head hanging heavy, Dean and Sam shadows on his periphery, his vision dark and indistinct except for pinpricks of clarity directly in front of him. There’s a warm trickle running down the side of his jaw – blood from his ear, he thinks. He reaches one hand forwards and drops it heavily palm down on the ground.

“Close your eyes,” he mumbles. “Dean… Sam… please.”

Dean starts towards him. “No, Cas. No. Don’t.”

“Dean, please, close your eyes.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Then, I must… leave.” 

He doesn’t want to die alone, he wants to die and have Dean hold him when it’s over, and he knows he’ll be beyond caring then, but it would be a comfort to die knowing that, and perhaps it would be a comfort to Dean, Castiel fools himself. But now that can’t happen, not if Dean won’t allow it, so Castiel focuses on a spot just over the horizon, and flies. It’s not far, but it’s far enough. He collapses onto his back and stares up at the sky, watches it fade to black, the last tendrils of his grace seep out of him, fading and ebbing. He closes his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean wakes up this morning like he’s woken up every other morning for the past two weeks, with only one thought in his mind. Cas is dead. It’s the last thought he has before he goes to sleep and it’s the same thought that nags him through every minute of every day. Cas is dead. He thinks it’s because he can’t quite believe it that he has to keep repeating it.

‘Please don’t be angry with me,’ Cas’s voice in his head says.

“I have every right to be angry with you, Cas. Don’t tell me what to do.” 

The son-of-a-bitch would do this to him. Dean throws down the paper he’s trying, and failing, to read. He’s been looking at the same damn page for three hours now. Cas knew. He’d known since he came back from 2014. 

‘I love you’ meant goodbye, and Dean had just thought it meant ‘I love you’.

They’d looked for Cas. They’re still looking because there’s no body. For two days they’d scoured the surrounding forests and hills in the area where they’d seen the flare of grace, not far from where they were; presumably Cas hadn’t had the power to fly far. They hadn’t found anything, not even burnt wings. Then they’d hung around the abandoned farmhouse for a couple of days before heading back to Bobby’s. Anywhere Cas might turn up if he was miraculously alive. 

They’ve been at Bobby’s for a couple of weeks and Dean’s still lost. He goes through the motions. He helps Bobby out in the yard. He helps Sam with some translation project he’s doing. He talks to Cas.

“I knew this would happen. We should have found another way.”

‘There was no other way, Dean. It’s not your fault.’

“I know. But I need to blame someone, Cas.”

In front of Bobby and Sam, he tries to pretend everything’s normal. He doesn’t know how successful he’s being. 

“I loved you so much,” he whispers into the tumbler he holds in his hand as a tear squeezes out from between his closed eyelids and runs down the side of his nose to hover briefly on the bow of his lip before he runs his tongue around to lick it off.

Sam knocks on the doorframe. “Two more John Does. Are you coming?”

Dean shakes his head. He’s seen enough six-foot, slim, mid-thirties, dark-haired, blue-eyed John Does, James Novaks, Cas anythings over the last two weeks to last a lifetime. “You go, Sam. I’ll stay here and keep Bobby company.”

“You sure?” Sam asks. “Because I can stay. Someone else can go?” Someone else being one of the dozen other hunters Bobby’s got keeping an ear out for news. 

“It won’t be Cas. Cas is dead.”

“You don’t know that, Dean. There was no body, no burnt out wing shadows. You don’t know that.”

“No, you’re right Sam. I don’t know that.” Dean runs a finger through his hair. He should cut it maybe. “Go Sam. It’s okay. One of us should be there if it is Cas.” 

~~xxx~~

A day later and Bobby catches him as he walks into the kitchen for beer and shakes his head. 

“Sam rang. Neither of them are Cas. I’m sorry.”

And that’s the moment that Dean forces himself to stop hoping; he hadn’t even known he still was until then. He hopes the voice in his head stops too.

Sam stays away. Follows up other leads though they’re starting to dry out now. Even goes on a hunt if what Dean’s overheard is true. Dean knows he’s got to do the same – get over it, get on with things. He’s wearing Bobby down and has outworn the pity. Bobby’s skirting around him, but looking impatient; he’s always on the phone helping out the other hunters, directing things, more so the last couple of days and Dean knows there must be something big going down.

“Okay, I got it. Tomorrow? Can’t you do sooner?... Yeah, okay, I get it,” Bobby says quietly into the phone, then hangs up, one eye on some scribbled notes on his desk and the other watching Dean.

“Send me somewhere, Bobby,” Dean says. “I can see you’re busy. Give me something to do.”

Bobby looks up and shakes his head. “The busy stint just finished with that phone call,” Bobby says, nodding at the phone. “Hang around here today, and I’ll sort something out for tomorrow, if you still want it. Right now I’m bushed.” Bobby pushes his chair back from the desk and wheels himself pointedly to the kitchen. “You can make me something to eat if you’re so keen to be busy.”

~~xxx~~

“That was your brother,” Bobby says, dropping the phone onto its cradle. He smiles and Dean doesn’t quite know what to make of that.

“Something up?” Dean asks. He pulls a mug out of the cupboard, peers at the dust lining the bottom, rinses it and fills it with stewed coffee from the pot on the stove. He sips carefully at the too-hot liquid. “I’m gonna guess Sam’s okay, or else I’m gonna worry a lot about the strange muscle contractions in your face.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bobby says, “Sam’s fine. Look, Dean. The last couple of days Sam’s been following something up and we think we’ve got some news about Cas.”

Dean slams his mug down on the counter and a little tidal wave of coffee sloshes out onto the surface. “Is it definite – have you seen him? Has Sam seen him?”

“No, but it’s a really strong lead. Sam’s gonna be back in a couple of hours and – ”

“Then, no.”

“No what?”

“No, Bobby. Cas is dead.” He turns and grabs the edge of the counter, stares blindly into the sink. “Don’t tell me he isn’t unless you or Sam have seen him with your own eyes.” Dean takes a couple of deep breaths, then turns back. The smile has slipped away from Bobby’s face and he’s simply there now, quiet and pitying. Dean doesn’t want Bobby’s pity. He stalks out of the kitchen. “Fuck, I need a real drink.”

Bobby doesn’t try to talk to him after that. He shouldn’t have yelled at him, but the old man should have known better. Dean takes a mouthful of whisky, clicking absently at the refresh button on the laptop keyboard. Gee, nothing’s changed since the last time. What a surprise. 

He stands up and grabs his jacket, heading for the door. 

“Where the hell are you going?”

“Anywhere. Not here.” He puts his hand on the handle, ready to turn.

“At least wait until Sam gets back.”

Dean turns the door handle and opens the door harder than he needs to. He looks down and back, avoiding looking directly at Bobby. “I’ve got my phone if you need me.”

Long purposeful strides take him down the steps from the porch and across the yard to the Impala. He doesn’t look back, but he can feel Bobby’s eyes bearing down on him as he drives away.

There’s a place he likes to go. A fishing spot by a lake only a thirty-minute drive from Bobby’s. There are other lakes around, bigger with better fishing, better boating and better swimming so it’s hardly surprising this one’s always quiet. Dean likes it that way. He’s been coming here for years; not often fishing but sometimes he brings one of Bobby’s old rods. Never catches anything, but that’s not really the point. Mostly he comes here to skim the flat, grey stones that line the shore and see how many skips he can get out of them before they sink. Sometimes he just comes here when he doesn’t want to be somewhere else.

He takes his phone out, and cursing his weakness, checks that the volume is up and that it’s got enough charge. Then he puts it flat on the Impala’s hood and he picks up a small, flat stone, pulls his arm back and sends it out across the lake. Five skips. He can do better than that.

By the time it’s gotten dark, the phone hasn’t rung, and he curses himself for letting himself think it would. He should go back. He should stop sulking and get off his frigging ass and go back and contribute meaningfully to society again. His ass stays parked on the old log he’s been using as a bench and he pulls his jacket a little tighter around him to stave off the evening chill.

The grumble of a pick-up engine in bad need of a tune-up eventually gets him off his seat. The lake’s too far from the road for it to be normal traffic. Could be hunters after deer or night fishermen; may be trouble of some sort. He pulls his gun out from its holster and keeping it loosely in hand he turns to face the coming vehicle. 

It’s an old blue Ford and it looks vaguely familiar, but then one old blue Ford looks much like another. The driver brings the truck into the clearing behind the Impala and turns off the engine but leaves the headlights on. That’s fair enough he supposes; there’s only a sliver of moonlight and its reflection off the lake is pretty much the only natural light there is, but when the driver opens the door and climbs out, Dean can’t see a damned thing behind the glare of the headlights and his finger curls ready around the trigger of the gun.

“Dean?”

Dean squints, surprised, into the light at the hulking shadow he can barely make out. “Sam? What’re you doing here?”

“Bobby said it would be better than calling. We’ve been waiting back at the house for hours.”

The passenger side door of the truck opens but Dean still can’t see a frigging thing.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean takes a breathless, disbelieving step forward towards the truck and lifts an arm to shade his eyes. “Cas? Turn those frigging headlights off, Sam.”

It takes Dean’s eyes time to adjust when the lights go out and by that time he doesn’t need to anyway because Cas is standing right in front of him.

“You’re alive,” he says in wonder.

“Yes.”

Dean spreads his hand, flattens it hard against Cas’s sternum and shoves. Startled, Cas takes two steps backwards, trying to stay on his feet. “You couldn’t pick up a frigging phone and tell me, you son-of-a-bitch?” 

“I apologize.” 

“I thought you were dead!” Dean yells.

Cas scrunches up his face in confusion. “I rather thought you’d be more pleased to see me.” 

“Of course I’m pleased to see you, you idiot,” Dean says, his voice cracking a little. He clears his throat. "What happened?"

Cas shakes his head. “I don't know. I don't remember anything. I didn't remember who I was.” Cas’s voice trails off uncertainly, and he glances over to Sam, waiting patiently on the other side of the truck. “Not until Sam found me.” 

Dean takes a step forward and peers closer. There’s a purple bruise over Castiel’s right cheekbone and Dean lifts his hand and strokes his thumb lightly across the skin, his brow furrowing into a frown.

“I’m human,” says Cas, answering Dean’s unspoken question.

“For good?” Dean asks, barely wanting to admit to himself, let alone Cas, that he could live with that – that he could live with Cas being there when he goes to bed at night, and still being there when he wakes up in the morning; that he could live with Cas getting snarky on long car journeys; that he could live with Cas standing beside him and Sam in a fight even if that meant, that along with them, he was putting his life on the line to be taken away in the time it takes to blink. 

The real question isn’t whether Dean can live with it though – it’s whether Cas can.

“Be careful what you wish for, they say, don’t they?” Cas says, his eyes locked with Deans. “I prayed to my father for more time. I guess he was listening for once.”

“More time?”

“For us. For you and me. For me actually, I suppose. I was being selfish. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to stay with you. I was scared.”

Dean’s hand drops to Cas’s shoulder and squeezes. “I was scared too, if that helps.” I’m scared now, he thinks.

“I’m not good at humanity.” Cas sets his jaw. Blue eyes, still fearful, stare back at Dean. 

“Nobody’s good at humanity, least of all us,” Dean responds, taking a step closer. Cas closes the gap and Dean’s hand slides around the back of Castiel’s neck and shoulders. Cas kisses him, briefly, longingly, achingly familiar. “We’ll work it out,” Dean says, “We have time.”


End file.
